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.V J 




THE MAN WITH 
THE CLUBFOOT 


BY 

VALENTINE WILLIAMS 

M 

AUTHOR OF 

THE YELLOW STREAK, Etc. 



GROSSET & DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 


Made n the United State, of Arneacs 





PritUed in the United States ef Ameriut 

,Seccnd Printing^ December^ sqzS 
Third Prtmtiue^ Febrnary^ igi0 


:7 


Publisked September. tplS 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTEB 

I. I SEEK A BED IN EOTTEEDAM 
n. THE CIPHEE WITH THE INVOICE 
m. A VISITOE IN THE NIGHT . 

IV. DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOE . 

V. THE LADY OF THE VOS'lN^T TUINTJE 


PAGE 

1 

8 

18 

28 

46 


VI. I BOAED THE BEELIN TEAIN AND LEAVE 
A LAME GENTLEMAN ON THE PLAT- 
FOEM ..... 62 

VH. IN WHICH A SILVEE STAE ACTS AS A 

CHAEM 82 

VIH. I HEAE OF CLUBFOOT AND MEET HIS 

EMPLOYEE . . . . 98 

IX. I ENCOUNTEE AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 
WHO LEADS ME TO A DELIGHTFUL 
SUEPEISB . ‘ . . . . 118 

X. A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT . 137 

XI. MISS MAEY PENDEEGAST EISKS HEE 

EEPUTATION ..... 155 


y 


IS 


Xn..-HIS EXCELLENCY THE GENERAL 



WORRIED .... 

• 

172 

xm. 

I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT . 

• 

191 

XIV. 

CLUBFOOT COMES TO HASSE^S . 

• 

206 

XV. 

THE WAITER AT THE CAFE REGINA 

. 

223 

XVI. 

A HAND CLASP BY THE RHINE . 

. 

235 

xvn. 

FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE 

• 

253 

xvin. 

I GO ON WITH THE STORY . 

. 

264 

xrx. 

WE HAVE A RECKONING WITH CLUB- 
FOOT ..... 

279 

XX. 

Charlemagne’s ride > > 


291 

XXI. 

RED TABS explains i.; ..j 

:o 

311 


THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


CHAPTER I 


I SEEK A BED IN BOTTEEDAM 

HE reception clerk looked up from the 



hotel register and shook his head firmly. 


‘‘Very sorry, saire,’’ he said, “not a 
bed in ze house. And he closed the book with 
a snap. 

Outside the rain came down heavens hard. 
Every one who came into the brightly lit hotel 
vestibule entered with a gush of water. I felt 
I would rather die than face the wind-swept 
streets of Rotterdam again. 

I turned once more to the clerk who was now 
busy at the key-rack. 

“Haven’t you really a comer? I wouldn’t 
mind where it was, as it is only for the night. 
Come now. ...” 

“Very sorry, saire. We have two gentlemen 
sleeping in ze bathrooms already. If you had 
reserved ...” And he shrugged his shoulders 


^ THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


and bent towards a visitor wbo was demanding 
liis key. 

I turned away with rage in my heart. What 
a cursed fool I had been not to wire from 
Groningen! I had fully intended to, but the 
extraordinary conversation I had had with 
Dicky Allerton had put everything else out of 
my head. At every hotel I had tried it had 
been the same story — Cooman’s, the Maas, the 
Grand, all were full even to the bathrooms. 
If I had only wired. . . . 

As I passed out into the porch I bethought 
myself of the porter. A hotel porter had helped 
me out of a similar plight in Breslau once years 
ago. This porter, with his red drink-sodden 
face and tarnished gold braid, did not promise 
well, so far as a recommendation for a lodging 
for the night was concerned. Still . . . 

I suppose it was my mind dwelling on my 
experience at Breslau that made me address 
the man in German. When one has been familiar 
with a foreign tongue from one's boyhood, it 
requires but a very slight mental impulse to 
drop into it. From such slight beginnings do 
great enterprises spring. If I had known the 
immense ramification of adventure that was to 
spread its roots from that simple question, I 
verily believe my heart would have failed me 
and I would have run forth into the night and 


I SEEK A BED IN ROTTERDAM 


3 


the rain and roamed the streets till morning, 

WeU, I found myself asking the man in Ger- 
man if he knew where I could get a room for the 
night. 

He shot a quick glance at me from under his 
reddened eyelids. 

“The gentleman would doubtless like a 
German house T’ he queried. 

You may hardly credit it, but my interview 
with Dicky Allerton that afternoon had simply 
driven the war out of my mind. When one 
has lived much among foreign peoples, one’s 
mentality slips automatically into their skin. 
I was now thinking in German — at least so it 
seems to me when I look back upon that night 
— and I answered without reflecting: 

“I don’t care where it is as long as I can get 
somewhere to sleep out of this infernal rain!” 

“The gentleman can have a good, clean bed 
at the Hotel Sixt in the little street they call 
the Vos in’t Tuintje, on the canal behind the 
Bourse. The proprietress is a good German, 
jawohl. . . . Frau Anna Schratt her name is. 
The gentleman need only say he comes from 
Franz at the Bopparder Hof.” 

I gave the man a gulden and bade him get 
me a cab. 

It was still pouring. As we rattled away 
over the glistening cobble-stones, my mind 


4 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

traveled back over the startling events of the 
day. My talk with old Dicky had given me 
such a mental jar that I found it at first weU- 
nigh impossible to concentrate my thoughts. 
ThaUs the worst of shell-shock. You think you 
are cured, you feel fit and well, and then sud- 
denly the machinery of your mind checks and 
halts and creaks. Ever since I had left hospital 
convalescent after being wounded on the Somme 
(“gunshot wound in head and cerebral concus- 
sion’’ the doctors called it) I had trained my- 
self, whenever my brain was en panne, to go 
back to the beginning of things and work slowly 
up to the present by methodical stages. 

Let’s see then. ... I was “boarded” at 
Millbank and got three months’ leave: then 
I did a month in the Littlejohns’ bungalow in 
Cornwall: there I got the letter from Dicky 
Allerton, who, before the war, had been in 
partnership with my brother Francis in the 
motor business at Coventry. Dicky had been 
with the Naval Division at Antwerp and was 
interned with the rest of the crowd when they 
crossed the Dutch frontier in those disastrous 
days of October, 1914. 

Dicky wrote from Groningen, just a line. 
Now that I was on leave, if I were fit to travel, 
would I come to Groningen and see him? “I 
have had a curious communication which seems 


I SEEK A BED IN ROTTERDAM 5 

to have to do with poor Francis/^ he added. 
That was all. 

My brain was still halting, so I turned to 
Francis. Here again I had to go back. Francis, 
rejected on all sides for active service owing to 
what he scornfully used to call ‘‘the shirkers’ 
ailment, varicose veins,” had flatly declined to 
carry on with his motor business after Dicky 
had joined up, although their firm was doing 
government work. Finally, he had vanished 
into the maw of the War Office and all I knew 
was that he was “something on the Intelli- 
gence. ’ ’ More than this not even he would tell 
me, and when he finally disappeared from Lon- 
don, just about the time that I was popping the 
parapet with my battalion at Neuve Chapelle, 
he left me his London chambers as his only 
address for letters. 

Ah ! now it was all coming back . . . Fran- 
cis ’ infrequent letters to me about nothing at 
all, then his will, forwarded to me for safe 
keeping when I was home on leave last Christ- 
mas, and after that, silence. Not another let- 
ter, not a word about him, not a shred of infor- 
mation. He had utterly vanished. 

I remembered my frantic inquiries, my vain 
visits to the War Office, my perplexity at the 
imperturbable silence of the various officials I 
importuned for news of my poor brother. Then 


d THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


there was that lunch at the Bath Club with 
Sonny Martin of the Heavies and a friend of 
his, some kind of staff captain in red tabs. I 
don’t think I heard his name, but I know he 
was at the War Office, and presently over our 
cigars and coffee I laid before him the mysteri- 
ous facts about my brother’s case. 

‘‘Perhaps you knew Francis?” I said in con- 
clusion. ‘ ‘ Yes, ’ ’ he replied, ‘ ‘ I know him well. ’ ’ 
^^Know him,” I repeated, ‘^know him . . . 
then . . . then you think . . . you have rea- 
son to believe he is still alive . . . ?” 

Red Tabs cocked his eye at the gilded comice 
of the ceiling and blew a ring from his cigar. 
But he said nothing. 

I persisted with my questions but it was of 
no avail. Red Tabs only laughed and said: “I 
know nothing at all except that your brother 
is a most delightful fellow with all your own 
love of getting his own way.” 

Then Sonny Martin, who is the perfection of 
tact and diplomacy — probably on that account 
he failed for the Diplomatic — chipped in with 
an anecdote about a man who was rating the 
waiter at an adjoining table, and I held my 
peace. But as Red Tabs rose to go, a little 
later, he held my hand for a minute in his and 
with that curious look of his, said slowly and 
with meaning: 


I SEEK A BED IN ROTTERDAM 7 

‘‘When a nation is at war, officers on active 
service must occasionally disappear, sometimes 
in their country’s interest, sometimes in their 
own.” 

He emphasized the words “on active serv* 
ice.” 

In a flash my eyes were opened. How blind 
I had been I Francis was in Germany. 


CHAPTER n 


THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE 

R ed TABS’ sphinx-like declaration was 
no riddle to me. I knew at once that 
Francis must be on secret service in 
the enemy’s country and that country Ger- 
many. My brother’s extraordinary knowledge 
of the Germans, their customs, life and dialects, 
rendered him ideally suitable for any such 
perilous mission. Francis always had an extra- 
ordinary talent for languages: he seemed to 
acquire them all without any mental effort, 
but in German he was supreme. During the 
year that he and I spent at Consistorial-Rat von 
Mayburg’s house at Bonn, he rapidly outdis- 
tanced me, and though, at the end of our time, 
I could speak German like a German, Francis 
was able, in addition, to speak Bonn and Co- 
logne patois like a native of those ancient cities 
— ay and he could drill a squad of recruits in 


8 


THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE p 

their own language like the smartest Leutnant 
ever fledged from Gross-Lichterfelde. 

He never had any difficulty in passing him- 
self off as a German. Well I remember his de- 
light when he was claimed as a fellow Rhein- 
lander by a German officer we met, one summer 
before the war, combining golf with a little use- 
ful espionage at Cromer. 

I don’t think Francis had any ulterior motive 
in his study of German. He simply found he 
had this imitative faculty : philology had 
always interested him: so, even after he had 
gone into the motor trade, he used to amuse 
himself on business trips to Germany by acquir- 
ing new dialects. 

His German imitations were extraordinarily 
funny. One of his ‘‘star turns” was a noisy 
sitting of the Reichstag with speeches by Prince 
Biilow and August Rebel and “interruptions”; 
another, a patriotic oration by an old Prussian 
General at a Kaiser’s Birthday dinner. Francis 
had a marvellous faculty not only of seeming 
German, but even of almost looking like a Ger- 
man, so absolutely was he able to slip into the 
skin of the part. 

Yet never in my wildest moments had I 
dreamt that he would try and get into Germany 
in war-time, into that land where every citizen 
is catalogued and pigeon-holed from the cradle> 


10 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


But Eed Tabs’ oracular utterance had made 
everything clear to me. Why, a mission to 
Germany would be the very thing that Francis 
would give his eyes to be allowed to attempt! 
Francis with his utter disregard of danger, his 
love of taking risks, his impish delight in tak- 
ing a rise out of the stodgy Hun . . . why, if 
there were Englishmen brave enough to take 
chances of that kind, Francis would be the first 
to volunteer. 

Yes, if Francis were on a mission anywhere 
it would be to Germany. But what prospect 
had he of ever returning — ^with the frontiers 
closed and ingress and egress practically barred 
even to pro-German neutrals? Many a night 
in the trenches I had a mental vision of Fran- 
cis, so debonair and so fearless, facing a firing- 
squad of Prussian privates. 

From the day of the luncheon at the Bath 
Club to this very afternoon I had had no fur- 
ther inkling of my brother’s whereabouts or 
fate. The authorities at home professed ignor- 
ance, as I knew, in duty bound, they would, and 
I had nothing to hang any theory on to until 
Dicky Allerton’s letter came. Ashcroft at the 
F.O. fixed up my passports for me and I lost 
no time in exchanging the white gulls and red 
cliffs of Cornwall for the windmills and trim 
canals of Holland. 


THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE ii 


And now in my breast pocket lay, written on 
a small piece of cheap foreign note-paper, the 
tidings I had come to Groningen to seek. Yet 
so trivial, so nonsensical, so baffling was the 
message that I already felt my trip to Holland 
to have been a fruitless errand. 

I found Dicky fat and bursting with health 
in his quarters at the internment camp. He 
only knew that Francis had disappeared. When 
I told him of my meeting with Red Tabs at the 
Bath Club, of the latter ^s words to me at part- 
ing and of my own conviction in the matter he 
whistled, then looked grave. 

He went straight to the point in his bluff, 
direct way. 

‘‘I am going to tell you a story first, Des- 
mond,’’ he said to me, ‘‘then I’ll show you a 
piece of paper. Whether the two together fit 
in with your theory as to poor Francis’ disap- 
pearance will be for you to judge. Until now — 
I must confess — I had felt inclined to dismiss 
the only reference this document appears to 
make to your brother as a mere coincidence in 
names, but what you have told me makes things 
interesting — ^by Jove, it does, though. Well, 
here’s the yarn first of all! 

“Your brother and I have had dealings in 
the past with a Dutchman in the motor business 


12 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


at Nymwegen, name of van Urutius. He has 
often been over to see us at Coventry in the 
old days and Francis has stayed with him at 
Nymwegen once or twice on his way back from 
Germany — Nymwegen, you know, is close to 
the German frontier. Old Urutius has been 
very decent to me since I have been in gaol 
here and has been over several times, generally 
with a box or two of those nice Dutch cigars,’^ 

“Dicky,’’ I broke in on him, “get on with the 
story. What the devil’s all this got to do with 
Francis? The document. . . .” 

“Steady, my boy!” was the imperturbable 
reply, “let me spin my yam my own way. I’m 
coming to the piece of paper. . . . 

“Well, then, old Urutius came to see me ten 
days ago. All I knew about Francis I had told 
him, namely, that Francis had entered the army 
and was missing. It was no busines of the old 
Mynheer if Francis was in the Intelligence, so 
I didn’t tell him that. Van U. is a staunch 
friend of the English, but you know the saying 
that if a man doesn’t know he can’t split. 

“My old Dutch pal, then, turned up here ten 
days ago. He was bubbling over with excite- 
ment. ‘Mr. Allerton,’ he says, ‘I haf had a 
writing, a most mysterious writing — a writing, 
I t’ink, from Francis Okewood.’ 

“I sat tight. If there were any revelations 


THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE ijr 

coming they were going to be Dutch, not Brit- 
ish. On that I was resolved. 

‘‘ ‘I haf received,’ the old Dutchman went 
on, ‘from Gairemany a parcel of metal shields, 
plates — ^what you call ’em — of tin, hein? What 
I haf to advertise my business. They arrife 
las ’ week — I open the parcel myself and on the 
top is the envelope with the invoice.’ 

“Mynheer paused: he has a good sense of the 
dramatic. 

“ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘did it bite you or say “Gott 
strafe England,” or what?’ 

“Van Urutius ignored my flippancy and re- 
sumed. ‘I open the envelope and there in 
the invoice I find this writing — ^here!’ 

“And here,” said Dicky, diving into his 
pocket, “is ‘the writing’!” 

And he thrust into my eagerly outstretched 
hand a very thin half-sheet of foreign note- 
paper, of that kind of cheap glazed note-paper 
you get in cafes on the Continent when you ask 
for writing materials. 

Three lines of German, written in fluent Ger- 
man characters in purple ink beneath the name 
and address of Mynheer van Urutius . . . 
that was all. 

My heart sank with disappointment and 
OTetchedness as I read the inscription. 


THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


Here is the document : 

Heem Willem van Urutius, 
Automobilgeschaft, 
Nymwegen. 

Alexander-Straat 8i bis. 

Berlin, iten Juli, i6. 

O Eichenholz ! O Eichenholz, 
Wie leer sind deine Blatter. 

Wie Achiles in dem Zelte. 

Wo zweie sich zanken 
Erfreut sich der Dritte. 


(Translation.) 

Mr. Willem van Urutius, 
Automobile Agent, 
Nymwegen. 

8i bis Alexander-Straat, 

Berlin, ist July, i6. 

O Oak-tree! O Oak-tree, 

How empty are thy leaves. 

Like Achiles in the tent. 

When two people fall out 
The third party rejoices. 


THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE 15 

I stared at this nonsensical document in 
silence. My thoughts were almost too bitter 
for words. 

At last I spoke. 

“What’s all this rigmarole got to do with 
Francis, Dicky?” I asked, vainly trying to 
suppress the bitterness in my voice. “This 
looks like a list of copybook maxims for your 
Dutch friend’s advertisement cards. . . 

But I returned to the study of the piece of 
paper. 

“Not so fast, old bird,” Dicky replied coolly, 
“let me finish my story. Old Stick-in-the-mud 
is a lot shrewder than we think. 

“ ‘When I read the writing,’ he told me, ‘I 
think he is all robbish, but then I ask myself, 
who shall put robbish in my invoices? And 
then I read the writing again and once again 
and then I see he is a message.’ 

“Stop, Dicky!” I cried, “of course, what an 
ass I am! Why Eichenholz . . 

“Exactly,” returned Dicky, “as the old 
Alynheer was the first to see, Eichenholz trans- 
lated into English is ‘Oak-tree’ or ‘Oak-wood’ 
— in other words, Francis.” 

“Then, Dicky . . .” I interrupted. 

“Just a minute,” said Dicky, putting up his 
hand. “I confess I thought, on first seeing this 
message or whatever it is, that there must be 


i6 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


simply a coincidence of name and that some- 
body’s idle scribbling had found its way into 
old van U.’s invoice. But now that you have 
told me that Francis may have actually got into 
Germany, then, I must say, it looks as if this 
might be an attempt of his to communicate 
with home. ’ ’ 

‘‘Where did the Dutchman’s packet of stuff 
come from?” I asked. 

“From the Berlin Metal Works in Steglitz, a 
suburb of Berlin: he has dealt with them for 
years.” 

“But then what does all the rest of it mean 
... all this about Achilles and the rest?” 

“Ah, Desmond!” was Dicky’s reply, “that’s 
where you’ve got not only me, but also Myn- 
heer van Urutius.” 

“ ‘0 oakwood! 0 oakwood, how empty are 
thy leaves!’ . . . That sounds like a taunt, 
don’t you think, Dicky?” said I. 

“Or a confession of failure from Francis 
... to let us know that he has done nothing, 
adding that he is accordingly sulking ‘like Ach- 
illes in his tent.’ ” 

“But, see here, Eichard Allerton,” I said, 
“Francis would never spell ‘Achilles’ with one 
‘1’ . . . now, would he?” 

“By Jove!” said Dicky, looking at the paper 
again, “nobody would but a very uneducated 


THE CIPHER WITH THE INVOICE // 

person. I know nothing about German, but tell 
me, is that the hand of an educated German? 
Is it Francis’ handwriting?” 

“Certainly, it is an educated hand,” I re- 
plied, “but I’m dashed if I can say whether it 
is Francis’ German handwriting: it can scarce- 
ly be because, as I have already remarked, he 
spells ‘Achilles’ with one ‘1.’ ” 

Then the fog came do^vn over us again. We 
sat helplessly and gazed at the fateful paper. 

“There’s only one thing for it, Dicky,” I said 
finally, “I’ll take the blooming thing back ta 
London with me and hand it over to the Intelli- 
gence. After all, Francis may have a code with 
them. Possibly they will see light where we 
grope in darkness.” 

“Desmond,” said Dicky, giving me his hand, 
“that’s the most sensible suggestion you’ve 
made yet. Go home and good luck to you. But 
promise me you’ll come back here and tell me if 
that piece of paper brings the news that dear 
old Francis is alive.” 

So I left Dicky but I did not go home. I was 
not destined to see my home for many a weary 
week. 


CHAPTER m 


A VISITOE IN THE NIGHT 

A VOLLEY of invective from the box of 
the cab — ^bad language in Dutch is fear- 
fully effective — aroused me from my 
musings. The cab, a small, uncomfortable box 
with a musty smell, stopped with a jerk that 
flung me forward. From the outer darkness 
furious altercation resounded above the plash- 
ing of the rain. I peered through the streaming 
glass of the windows but could distinguish no- 
thing save the yellow blur of a lamp. Then a 
vehicle of some kind seemed to move away in 
front of us, for I heard the grating of wheels 
against the curb, and my cab drew up to the 
pavement. 

On alighting, I found myself in a narrow, 
dark street with high houses on either side. A 
grimy lamp with the word “HoteP’ in half-ob- 
literated characters painted on it hung above 
my head, announcing that I had arrived at my 

i8 


A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT ip 

destination. As I paid off tlie cabman another 
cab passed. It was apparently the one with 
which my Jehu had had words, for he turned 
round and shouted abuse into the night. 

My cabman departed, leaving me with my 
bag on the pavement at my feet, gazing at a 
narrow dirty door, the upper half of which was 
filled in with frosted glass. I was at last awake 
to the fact that I, an Englishman, was going 
to spend the night in a German hotel to which 
I had been specially recommended by a German 
porter on the understanding that I was a 
German. I knew that, according to the Dutch 
neutrality regulations, my passport would have 
to be handed in for inspection by the police 
and that therefore I could not pass myself off 
as a German. 

‘‘Bah!’^ I said to give myself courage, ‘‘this 
is a free country, a neutral country. They may 
be offensive, they may overcharge you, in a 
Hun hotel, but they canT eat you. Besides, 
any bed on a night like this!^^ and I pushed 
open the door. 

Within, the hotel proved to be rather better 
than its uninviting exterior promised. There 
was a small vestibule with a little glass cage of 
an office on one side and beyond it an old-fash- 
ioned flight of stairs, with a glass knob on the 
post at the foot, winding to the upper stories. 


THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


At the sound of my footsteps on the mosaic 
flooring, a waiter emerged from a little cubby- 
hole under the stairs. He had a blue apron girt 
about his waist, hut otherwise he wore the short 
coat and the dicky and white tie of the Conti- 
nental hotel waiter. His hands were grimy 
with black marks and so was his apron. He 
had apparently been cleaning boots. 

He was a big, fat, blonde man with narrow, 
cruel little eyes. His hair was cut so short that 
his head appeared to be shaven. He advanced 
quickly towards me and asked me in German 
in a truculent voice what I wanted. 

I replied in the same language, I wanted a 
room. 

He shot a glance at me through his little slits 
of eyes on hearing my good Bonn accent, but 
his manner did not change. 

“The hotel is full. The gentleman cannot 
have a bed here. The proprietress is out at 
present. I regret. . . . He spat this all out 
in the offhand insolent manner of the Prussian 
official. 

“It was Franz, of the Bopparder Hof, who 
recommended me to come here,’’ I said. I was 
not going out again into the rain for a whole 
army of Prussian waiters. 

“He told me that Frau Schratt would make 
me very comfortable,” I added. 


A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT 


31 


The waiter’s manner changed at once. 

“So, so,” he said — quite genially this time — 
“it was Franz who sent the gentleman to us. 
He is a good friend of the house, is Franz. Ja, 
Frau Schratt is unfortunately out just now, but 
as soon as the lady returns I will inform her 
you are here. In the meantime, I will give the 
gentleman a room.” 

He handed me a candlestick and a key. 

“So,” he grunted, “No. 31, the third floor.” 

A clock rang out the hour somewhere in the 
distance. 

“Ten o’clock already,” he said. “The gentle- 
man’s papers can wait till to-morrow, it is so 
late. Or perhaps the gentleman will give them 
to the proprietress. She must come any mo- 
ment.” 

As I mounted the winding staircase I heard 
him murmur again: 

“So, so, Franz sent him here! Ach, der 
Franz!” 

As soon as I had passed out of sight of the 
lighted hall I found myself in complete dark- 
ness. On each landing a jet of gas, turned down 
low, flung a dim and flickering light a few yards 
around. On the third floor I was able to dis- 
tinguish by the gas rays a small plaque fastened 
to the wall inscribed with an arrow pointing to 
the right above the figures: 46-30. 


22 


THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


I stopped to strike a match to light my candle. 
The whole hotel seemed wrapped in silence, the 
only sound the rushing of water in the gutters 
without. Then from the darkness of the narrow 
corridor that stretched out in front of me, I 
heard the rattle of a key in a lock. 

I advanced down the corridor, the pale glim- 
mer of my candle showing me as I passed a 
succession of yellow doors, each bearing a white 
porcelain plate inscribed with a number in 
black. No. 46 was the first room on the right 
counting from the landing: the even numbers 
were on the right, the odd on the left: there- 
fore I reckoned on finding my room the last on 
the left at the end of the corridor. 

The corridor presently took a sharp turn. 'As 
I came round the bend I heard again the sound 
of a key and then the rattling of a door knob, 
but the corridor bending again, I could not see 
the author of the noise until I had turned the 
comer. 

I ran right into a man fumbling at a door on 
the left-hand side of the passage, the last door 
but one. A mirror at the end of the corridor 
caught and threw back the reflection of my 
candle. 

The man looked up as I approached. He was 
wearing a soft black felt hat and a black over- 
coat and on his arm hung an umbrella stream- 


A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT 


23 


ing with rain. His candlestick stood on the 
floor at his feet. It had apparently just been 
extinguished, for my nostrils sniffed the odor 
of burning tallow. 

‘‘You have a light?’’ the stranger said in 
German in a curiously breathless voice. “I 
have just come upstairs and the wind blew out 
my candle and I could not get the door open. 
Perhaps you could . . He broke off gasp- 
ing and put his hand to his heart. 

“Allow me,” I said. The lock of the door 
was inverted and to open the door you had to 
insert the key upside-down. I did so and the 
door opened easily. As it swung back I noticed 
the number of the room was 33, next door to 
mine. 

“Can I be of any assistance to you? Are 
you unwell?” I said, at the same time lifting 
my candle and scanning the stranger’s features 

He was a young man with close-cropped black 
hair, fine dark eyes and an aquiline nose with 
a deep furrow between the eyebrows. The 
crispness of his hair and the high cheekbones 
gave a suggestion of Jewish blood. His face 
was very pale and his lips were blueish. I saw 
the perspiration glistening on his forehead. 

“Thank you, it is nothing,” the man replied 
in the same breathless voice. “I am only a 
little out of breath with carrying my bag up.” 


24 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

‘‘You must have arrived just before I did,’^ 
I said, remembering the cab that had driven 
away from the hotel as I drove up. 

“That is so,’’ he answered, pushing open his 
door as he spoke. He disappeared into the 
darkness of the room and suddenly the door 
shut with a slam that re-echoed through the 
house. 

As I had calculated, my room was next door 
to his, the end room of the corridor. It smelt 
horribly close and musty and the first thing I 
did was to stride across to the windows and 
fling them back wide. 

I found myself looking across a dark and 
narrow canal, on whose stagnant water loomed 
large the black shapes of great barges, into the 
windows of gaunt and weather-stained houses 
over the way. Not a light shone in any window. 
Away in the distance the same clock as I had 
heard before struck the quarter — a single, dear- 
chime. 

It was the regular bedroom of the maison 
meublee — ^wom carpet, discolored and dingy 
wall-paper, faded red curtains and mahogany 
bedstead with a vast edredon, like a giant pin- 
cushion. My candle, guttering wildly in the 
unaccustomed breeze blowing dankly through 
the chamber, was the sole illumipant. There 
was neither gas nor electric light laid on. 


A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT 


^5 


The house had relapsed into quiet. The bed- 
room had an evil look and this, combined with 
the dank air from the canal, gave my thoughts 
a sombre tinge. 

Well,’’ I said to myself, ‘‘you’re a nice kind 
of ass ! Here you are, a British oflScer, posing 
as a brother Hun in a cut-throat Hun hotel, 
with a waiter who looks like the official Prussian 
executioner. What’s going to happen to you, 
young feller my lad, when Madame comes along 
and finds you have a British passport? A very 
pretty kettle of fish, I must say ! 

“And suppose Madame takes it into her head 
to toddle along up here to-night and calls your 
bluff and summons the gentle Hans or Fritz or 
whatever that ruffianly waiter’s name is to 
come upstairs and settle your hash! What 
sort of a fight are you going to put up in that 
narrow corridor out there with a Hun next door 
and probably on every side of you, and no exit 
this end? You don’t know a living soul in 
Eotterdam and no one will be a penny the wiser 
if you vanish off the face of the earth ... at 
any rate no one on this side of the water.” 

Starting to undress, I noticed a little door on 
the left-hand side of the bed. I found it opened 
into a small cabinet de toilette, a narrow slip of 
a room with a wash-hand stand and a very 
dirty window covered with yellow paper. I 


36 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


pulled open this window with great difficulty — 
it cannot have been opened for years — and 
found it gave on to a very small and deep in- 
terior court, just an air shaft round which the 
house was built. At the bottom was a tiny 
paved court not more than five foot square, en- 
tirely isolated save on one side where there was 
a basement window with a flight of steps lead- 
ing down from the court through an iron grat- 
ing. Prom this window a faint yellow streak 
of light was visible. The air was damp and 
chill and horrid odors of a dirty kitchen were 
wafted up the shaft. So I closed the window 
and set about turning in. 

I took off my coat and waistcoat, then be- 
thought me of the mysterious document I had 
received from Dicky. Once more I looked at 
those enigmatical words: 

0 Oak-wood! 0 Oak-wood (for that much 
was clear). 

How empty are thy leaves. 

Like Achiles (with one ‘H”) in the tent. 
When two people fall out 
The third party rejoices. 

What did it all mean? Had Francis fallen 
out with some confederate who, having had his 
revenge by denouncing my brother, now took 
this extraordinary step to announce his victim’s 
fate to the latter’s friends? ‘‘Like Achilles in 


A VISITOR IN THE NIGHT 


27 

the tent I” Why not “in Ms tent^’? Sure- 
ly ^ 

A curious choking noise, the sound of a 
strangled cough, suddenly broke the profound 
silence of the house. My heart seemed to stop 
for a moment. I hardly dared raise my eyes 
from the paper which I was conning, leaning 
over the table in my shirt and trousers. 

The noise continued, a hideous, deep-throated 
gurgling. Then I heard a faint foot-fall in the 
corridor without. 

I raised my eyes to the door. 

Someone or something was scratching the 
panels, furiously, frantically. 

The door-knob was rattled loudly. The noise 
broke in raucously upon that horrid gurgling 
sound without. It snapped the spell that bound 
me. 

I moved resolutely towards the door. Even 
as I stepped forward the gurgling resolved it- 
self into a strangled cry. 

“Achl ich sterbe” were the words I heard. 

Then the door burst open with a crash, there 
was a swooping rush of wind and rain through 
the room, the curtains flapped madly from the 
windows. 

The candle flared up wildly. 

Then It went out. 

Something fell heavily into the room. 


CHAPTEE IV 


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 

T here are two things at least that mod- 
em warfare teaches yon, one is to keep 
cool in an emergency, the other is not 
to be afraid of a corpse. Therefore I was 
scarcely surprised to find myself standing there 
in the dark calmly reviewing the extraordinary 
situation in which I now found myself. That’s 
the curious thing about shell-shock: after it a 
motor back-firing or a tire bursting will reduce 
a man to tears, but in face of danger he will 
probably find himself in full possession of his 
wits as long as there is no sudden and violent 
noise connected with it. 

Brief as the sounds without had been, I was 
able on reflection to identify that gasping 
gurgle, that rapid patter of the hands. Anyone 
who has seen a man die quickly knows them. 
Accordingly I surmised that somebody had 
come to my door at the point of death. 


28 


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 


Then I thought of the man next door, his 
painful breathlessness, his blueish lips, when I 
found him wrestling with his key, and I guessed 
who was my nocturnal visitor lying prone in 
the dark at my feet. 

Shielding the candle with my hand I re- 
kindled it. Then I grappled with the flapping 
curtains and got the windows shut. Then only 
did I raise my candle until its beams shone 
down upon the silent figure lying across the 
threshold of the room. 

It was the man from No. 33. He was quite 
dead. His face was livid and distorted, his 
eyes glassy between the half-closed lids, while 
his fingers, still stiffly clutching, showed paint 
and varnish and dust beneath the nails where 
he had pawed door and carpet in his death 
agony. 

One did not need to be a doctor to see that a 
heart attack had swiftly and suddenly struck 
him down. 

Now that I knew the worst I acted with de- 
cision. I dragged the body by the shoulders 
into the room until it lay in the center of the 
carpet. Then I locked the door. 

The foreboding of evil that had cast its black 
shadow over my thoughts from the moment I 
crossed the threshold of this sinister hotel came 
over me strongly again. Indeed, my position 


it3 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

was, to say the least, scarcely enviable. Here 
was I, a British officer with British papers of 
identity, about to be discovered in a German 
hotel, into which I had introduced myself under 
false pretences, at dead of night alone with the 
corpse of a German or Austrian (for such the 
dead man apparently was) ! 

It was undoubtedly a most awkward fix. 

I listened. 

Everything in the hotel was silent as the 
grave. 

I turned from my gloomy forebodings to look 
again at the stranger. In his crisp black hair 
and slightly protuberant cheek-bones I traced 
again the hint of Jewish ancestry I had re- 
marked before. Now that the man’s eyes — ^his 
big, thoughtful eyes that had stared at me out 
of the darkness of the corridor — ^were closed, he 
looked far less foreign than before: in fact he 
might almost have passed as an Englishman. 

He was a young man — about my own age, I 
judged— (I shall be twenty-eight next birthday) 
and about my own height, which is five feet ten. 
There was something about his appearance and 
build that struck a chord very faintly in my 
memory. 

Had I seen the fellow before! 

I remembered now that I had noticed some- 
thing oddly familiar about him when I first saw; 


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 31 

him for that brief moment in the corridor. 

I looked down at him again as he lay on his 
back on the faded carpet. I brought the candle 
down closer and scanned his features. 

He certainly looked less foreign than he did 
before. He might not be a German after all: 
more likely a Hungarian or a Pole, perhaps 
even a Dutchman. His German had been too 
flawless for a Frenchman — for a Hungarian, 
either, for that matter. > 

I leant back on my knees to ease my cramped 
position. As I did so I caught a glimpse of the 
stranger ^s three-quarters face. 

Why ! He reminded me of Francis a little ! 

There certainly was a suggestion of my 
brother in the man’s appearance. Was it the 
thick black hair, the small dark moustache? 
Was it the well-chiselled mouth? It was rather 
a hint of Francis than a resemblance to him. 

The stranger was fully dressed. The jacket 
of his blue serge suit had fallen open and I saw 
a portfolio in the inner breast pocket. Here, I 
thought, might be a clue to the dead man’s iden- 
tity. I fished out the portfolio, then rapidly 
ran my fingers over the stranger’s other pock- 
ets. 

I left the portfolio to the last. 

The jacket pockets contained nothing else ex- 
cept a white silk handkerchief unmarked. In 


3 ^ THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

the right hand top pocket of the waistcoat was 
a neat silver cigarette case, perfectly plain, 
containing half a dozen cigarettes. I took one 
out and looked at it. It was a Melania, a cigar- 
ette I happen to know for they stock them at 
one of my clubs, the Dionysus, and it chances 
to be the only place in London where you can 
get the brand. 

It looked as if my unknown friend had come 
from London. 

There was also a plain silver watch of Swiss 
make. 

In the trousers pocket was some change, a 
little English silver and coppers, some Dutch 
silver and paper money. Li the right-hand 
trouser pocket was a bunch of keys. 

That was all. 

I put the different articles on the floor beside 
me. Then I got up, put the candle on the table, 
drew the chair up to it and opened the port- 
folio. 

In a little pocket of the inner flap were visit- 
ing cards. Some were simply engraved with 
the name in small letters : 


Dr. Semlin 


Others were more detailed; 


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 33 


Dr. Semlin, 

Brooklyn, N. Y. 
The Halewright Mfg. Coi^ , Ltd 


There were also half a dozen private cards : 


Dr. Semlin, 

333 E. 73rd St., 
New York. 

Rivington Park House. 


In the packet of cards was a solitary one, 
larger than the rest, an expensive affair on 
thick, highly glazed millboard, bearing in gothic 
characters the name : 

OTTO VON STEINHAEDT 

On this card was written in pencil, above the 
name: 

‘‘Hotel Sixt, Vos in’t Tuintje,’’ and in 
brackets, thus: “ [Mme. Anna Schratt.]^’ 

In another pocket of the portfolio was an 
American passport surmounted by a flaming 
eagle and sealed with a vast red seal, sending 


34 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

greetings to all and sundry on behalf of Henry 
Semlin, a United States citizen, travelling to 
Europe. Details in the body of the document 
set forth that Henry Semlin was born at 
Brooklyn on 31st March, 1886, that his hair 
was Black, nose Aquiline, chin Firm, and that 
of special marks he had None. The description 
was good enough to show me that it was un- 
doubtedly the body of Henry Semlin that lay at 
my feet. 

The passport had been issued at Washington 
three months earlier. The only vise it bore was 
that of the American Embassy in London, 
dated two days previously. With it was a 
British permit, issued to Henry Semlin, Manu- 
facturer, granting him authority to leave the 
United Kingdom for the purpose of travelling 
to Botterdam, further a bill for luncheon served 
on board the Dutch Boyal mail steamer 
Koningin Regentes on yesterday’s date. 

In the long and anguishing weeks that fol- 
lowed on that anxious night in the Hotel of the 
Vos in’t Tuintje, I have often wondered to 
what malicious promptings, to what insane im- 
pulse, I owed the idea that suddenly germinated 
in my brain as I sat fingering the dead man’s let- 
ter-case in that squalid room. The impulse 
sprang into my brain like a flash and like a 
flash I acted on it, though I can hardly believe 


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 33 

I meant to pursue it to its logical conclusion 
until I stood once more outside the door of my 
room. 

The examination of the dead man’s papers 
had shown me that he was an American busi- 
ness man, who had just come from London, 
having but recently proceeded to England from 
the United States. 

What puzzled me was why an American 
manufacturer, seemingly of some substance and 
decently dressed, should go to a German hotel 
on the recommendation of a German, from his 
name, and the style of his visiting card, a man 
of good family. 

Semlin might, of course, have been, like my- 
self, a traveller benighted in Rotterdam, owing 
his recommendation to the hotel to a German 
acquaintance in the city. Still, Americans are 
cautious folk and I found it rather improbable 
that this American business man should ad- 
venture himself into this evil-looking house 
with a large sum of money on his person — ^he 
had several hundred pounds of money in Dutch 
currency notes in a thick wad in his portfolio. 

I knew that the British authorities discour- 
aged, as far as they could, neutrals travelling 
to and fro between England and Germany in 
war-time. Possibly Semlin wanted to do busi- 
ness in Germany on his European trip as well 


36 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


as in England. Knowing the attitude of the 
British authorities, he may well have made his 
arrangements in Holland for getting into Ger- 
many lest the British police should get wind of 
his purpose and stop him crossing to Eotter- 
dam. 

But his German was so flawless, with no trace 
of Americanism in voice or accent. And I 
knew what good use the German Intelligence 
had made of neutral passports in the past. 
Therefore I determined to go next door and 
have a look at Dr. Semlin’s luggage. In the 
back of my mind was ever that harebrain 
resolve, half-formed as yet but none the less 
fitmly rooted in my head. 

Taking up my candle again, I stole out of the 
room. As I stood in the corridor and turned to 
lock the bedroom door behind me, the mirror at 
the end of the passage caught the reflection of 
my candle. 

I looked and saw myself in the glass, a white^ 
staring face. 

I looked again. Then I fathomed the riddle 
that had puzzled me in the dead face of the 
stranger in my room. 

It was not the face of Francis that his fea- 
tures suggested. 

It was mine! 


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 37 

The next moment I found myself in No, 33. 
I could see no sign of the key of the room: 
Semlin must have dropped it in his fall, so it 
behoved me to make haste for fear of any unto- 
ward interruption. I had not yet heard eleven 
strike on the clock. 

The stranger’s hat and overcoat lay on a 
chair. The hat was from Scott’s: there was 
nothing except a pair of leather gloves in the 
overcoat pockets. 

A bag, in size something between a small kit- 
bag and a large hand-bag, stood open on the 
table. It contained a few toilet necessaries, a 
pair of pyjamas, a clean shirt, a pair of slip- 
pers, . . . nothing of importance and not a 
scrap of paper of any kind. 

I went through everything again, looked in 
the sponge bag, opened the safety razor case, 
shook out the shirt, and finally took everything 
out of the bag and stacked the things on the 
table. 

At the bottom of the bag I made a strange 
discovery. The interior of the bag was fitted 
with that thin yellow canvas-like material with 
which nearly all cheap bags, like this one was, 
are lined. At the bottom of the bag an oblong 
piece of the lining had apparently been tom 
clean out. The leather of the bag showed 
through the slit. Yet the lining round the edges 


38 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

of the gap showed no fraying, no trace of rough 
usage. On the contrary, the edges were pasted 
neatly down on the leather. 

I lifted the bag and examined it. As I did 
so I saw lying on the table beside it an oblong 
of yellow canvas. I picked it up and found the 
under side stained with paste and the brown of 
the leather. 

It was the missing piece of lining and it was 
stiff with something that crackled inside it. 

I slit the piece of canvas up one side with my 
penknife. It contained three long fragments of 
paper, a thick, expensive, highly glazed paper 
Top, bottom and left-hand side of each was trim 
and glossy: the fourth side showed a broken 
edge as though it had been roughly cut with a 
knife. The three slips of paper were the halves 
of three quarto sheets of writing, torn in two, 
lengthways, from top to bottom. > 

At the top of each slip was part of some kind 
of crest in gold, what, it was not possible to de- 
termine, for the crest had been in the center of 
the sheet and the cut had gone right through it. 

The letter was written in English but the 
name of the recipient as also the date was on 
the missing half. 

Somewhere in the silence of the night I heard 
a door bang. I thrust the slips of paper in 
their canvas covering into my trousers pocket. 


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 


SP 


I must not be found in that room. With trem- 
bling hands I started to put the things back in 
the bag. Those slips of paper, I reflected as I 
worked, at least rent the veil of mystery en- 
veloping the corpse that lay stiffening in the 
next room. This, at any rate, was certain: 
German or American or hyphenate, Henry Sem- 
lin, manufacturer and spy, had voyaged from 
America to England not for the purposes of 
trade but to get hold of that mutilated docu- 
ment now reposing in my pocket. Why he had 
only got half the letter and what had happened 
to the other half was more than I could say . . . 
it sufiiced for me to know that its importance 
to somebody was sufficient to warrant a journey 
on its behalf from one side to the other of the 
Atlantic. 

As I opened the bag my fingers encountered 
a hard substance, as of metal, embedded in the 
slack of the lining in the joints of the mouth. 
At first I thought it was a coin, then I felt some 
kind of clasp or fastening behind it and it 
seemed to be a brooch. Out came my pocket 
knife again and there lay a small silver star, 
about as big as a regimental cap badge, em- 
bedded in the thin canvas. It bore an inscrip- 
tion. In stencilled letters I read : 


40 


THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 



Here was Dr, Semlin’s real visiting-card. 

I held in my hand a badge of the German 
secret police. 

You cannot penetrate far behind the scenes 
in Germany without coming across the traces 
of Section Seven of the Berlin Police Presi- 
dency, the section that is known euphemistical- 
ly as that of the Political Police. Ostensibly it 
attends to the safety of the monarch, and of 
distinguished personages generally, and the 
numerous suite that used to accompany the 
Kaiser on his visits to England invariably in- 
cluded two or three top-hatted representatives 
of the section. 

The ramifications of Abteilung Siehen are, in 
reality, much wider. It does such work in con- 
nection with the newspapers as is even too dirty 
for the German Foreign Office to touch, com- 
prising everything from the launching of per- 
sonal attacks in obscure blackmailing sheets 
against inconvenient politicians to the escorting 


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 41 

of unpleasantly truthful foreign correspondents 
to the frontier. It is the obedient handmaiden 
of the Intelligence Department of both War 
Office and Admiralty in Germany, and renders 
faithful service to the espionage which is con- 
stantly maintained on officials, politicians, the 
clergy and the general public in that land of 
careful organization. 

Section Seven is a vast subterranean depart- 
ment. Always working in the dark, its political 
oomplexion is a handy cloak for blacker and 
more sinister activities. It is frequently en- 
trusted with commissions of which it would be 
inexpedient for official Germany to have cog- 
nizance and which, accordingly, official Ger- 
many can always safely repudiate when occa- 
sion demands. 

I thrust the pin of the badge into my braces 
and fastened it there, crammed the rest of the 
dead man^s effects into his bag, stuck his hat 
upon my head and threw his overcoat on my 
arm, picked up his bag and crept away. In 
another minute I was back in my room, my 
brain aflame with the fire of a great enterprise. 

Here, to my hand, lay the key of that locked 
land which held the secret of my lost brother. 
The question I had been asking myself, ever 
since I had first discovered the dead man’s 
American papers of identity, was this. Had I 


42 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

the nerve to avail myself of Semlin’s American 
passport to get into Germany? The answer 
to that question lay in the little silver badge. 
I knew that no German official, whatever his 
standing, whatever his orders, would refuse 
passage to the silver star of Section Seven. It 
need only be used, too, as a last resource, for I 
had my papers as a neutral. Could I but once 
set foot in Germany, I was quite ready to de- 
pend on my wits to see me through. One ad- 
vantage, I knew, I must forgo. That was the 
half-letter in its canvas case. 

If that document was of importance to Sec- 
tion Seven of the German Police, then it 
was of equal, nay, of greater importance to 
my country. If I went, that should remain 
behind in safe keeping. 

Never before, since the war began,’’ I told 
myself, “can any Englishman have had such 
an opportunity vouchsafed to him for getting 
easily and safely into that jealously guarded 
land as you have now! You have plenty of 
money, what with your own and this . . 
and I fingered Semlin’s wad of notes, “and pro- 
vided you can keep your head sufficiently to re- 
member always that you are a German, once 
over the frontier you should be able to give the 
Huns the slip and try and follow up the trail of 
poor Francis. 


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR 43 

^‘And maybe/ ^ I argued further (so easily 
one’s better judgment defeated when one is 
yotmg and set on a thing), ‘‘maybe in German 
surroundings, you may get some sense into that 
mysterious jingle you got from Dicky Allerton 
as the sole existing clue to the disappearance of 
Francis.” 

Nevertheless, I wavered. The risks were 
awful. I had to get out of that evil hotel in 
the guise of Dr. Semlin, with, as the sole safe- 
guard against exposure, should I fall in with 
the dead man’s employers or friends, that 
slight and possibly imaginative resemblance 
between him and me: I had to take such 
measures as would prevent the fraud from 
being detected when the body was discovered 
in the hotel: above all, I had to ascertain, be- 
fore I could definitely resolve to push on into 
Germany, whether Semlin was already known 
to the people at the hotel or whether — as I 
surmisd to be the case — ^this was also his first 
visit to the house in the Vos in’t Taint je. 

In any case, I was quite determined in my 
own mind that the only way to get out of the 
place with Semlin ’s document without con- 
siderable unpleasantness, if not grave danger, 
would be to transfer his identity and effects to 
myself and vice versa. When I saw the way a 
little clearer I could decide whether to take the 


44 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 

supreme risk and adventure myself into the 
enemy ^s country. 

Whatever I was going to do, there were not 
many hours of the night left in which to act, 
and I was determined to he out of that house of 
ill omen before day dawned. If I could get 
clear of the hotel and at the same time ascer- 
tain that Semlin was as much a stranger there 
as myself, I could decide on my further course 
of action in the greater freedom of the streets 
of Rotterdam. One thing was certain: the 
waiter had let the question of Semlin ’s papers 
stand over until the morning, as he had done 
in my case, for Semlin still had his passport in 
his possession. 

‘After all, if Semlin was unknown at the hotel, 
the waiter had only seen him for the same brief 
moment as he had seen me. 

Thus I reasoned and argued with myself, but 
in the meantime I acted. I had nothing com- 
promising in my suit-case, so that caused no 
difficulty. My British passport and permit and 
anything bearing any relation to my person- 
ality, such as my watch and cigarette case, both 
of which were engraved with my initials, I 
transferred to the dead man’s pockets. As I 
bent over the stiff, cold figure with its livid face 
and clutching fingers, I felt a difficulty which 
T had hitherto resolutely shirked forcing itself 


DESTINY KNOCKS AT THE DOOR ^45 


squarely into the forefront of my mind. 
What was I going to do about the body? 

At that moment came a low knocking. 

With a sudden sinking at the heart I remem- 
bered I had forgotten to lock the door. 


CHAPTER V 


THE LADY OF THE VOS IN ^T TXJINT JE 

H ere was Destiny knocking at the dOor. 
In that instant my mind was made up. 
For the moment, at any rate, I had 
every card in my hands. I would bluff these 
stodgy Huns : I would brazen it out : I would be 
Semlin and go through with it to the bitter end, 
aye, and if it took me to the very gates of Hell. 
The knocking was repeated. 

“May one come in?’’ said a woman’s voice 
in German. 

I stepped across the corpse and opened the 
door a foot or so. 

There stood a woman with a lamp. She was 
a middle-aged woman with an egg-shaped face, 
fat and white and puffy, and pale, crafty eyes. 
She was in her outdoor clothes, with an enor- 
mous vulgar-looking hat and an old-fashioned 
sealskin cape with a high collar. The cape 
which was glistening with rain was half open, 

46 


THE LADY OF THE VOS IN’T TUINTJE 4 ? 

and displayed a vast bosom tightly compressed 
into a white silk blouse. In one hand she car- 
ried an oil lamp. 

‘‘Frau Schratt,’^ she said by way of intro- 
duction, and raised the lamp to look more close- 
ly at me. 

Then I saw her face change. She was look- 
ing past me into the room, and I knew that the 
lamplight was falling fujl upon the ghastly 
thing that lay upon the floor. 

I realized the woman was about to scream, so 
I seized her by the wrist. She had disgusting 
hands, fat and podgy and covered with rings. 

“Quiet!’’ I whispered fiercely in her ear, 
never relaxing my grip on her wrist. “You 
will be quiet and come in here, do you under- 
stand?” 

She sought to shrink from me, but I held her 
fast and drew her into the room. 

She stood motionless with her lamp, at the 
head of the corpse. She seemed to have re- 
gained her self-possession. The woman was no 
longer frightened. I felt instinctivly that her 
fears had been all for herself, not for that livid 
horror sprawling on the floor. When she spoke 
her manner was almost business-like. 

“I was told nothing of this,” she said. “Who 
is it? What do you want me to do?” 

Of all the sensations of that night, none has 


48 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

left a more unpleasant odor in my memory than 
the manner of that woman in the chamber of 
death. Her voice was incredibly hard. Her 
dull, basilisk eyes, seeking in mine the answers 
to her questions, gave me an eerie sensation 
that makes my blood run cold whenever I think 
of her. 

Then suddenly her manner, arrogant, inso- 
lent, cruel, changed. She became polite. She 
was obsequious. Of the two, the first manner 
became her vastly better. She looked at me 
with a curious air, almost with reverence, as it 
seemed to me. She said, in a purring voice : 

‘‘Ach, so! I did not understand. The gen- 
tleman must excuse me.’’ 

And she purred again : ‘ ‘ So 1 ” 

It was then I noticed that her eyes were fast- 
ened upon my chest. I followed their direc- 
tion. 

They rested on the silver badge I had stuck 
in my braces. 

I understood and held my peace. Silence was 
my only trump until I knew how the land lay. 
If I left this woman alone, she would tell me all 
I wanted to know. 

In fact, she began to speak again. 

expected you/" she said, ^‘but not . . . 
this. Who is it this time? A Frenchman, eh?’^ 

I shook my head. 


THE LADY OF THE VOS IN’T TUINTJE 49 


‘‘An Englishman/’ I said curtly. 

Her eyes opened in wonder. 

“Ach, nein!” she cried — and you would have 
said her voice vibrated with pleasure— “An 
Englishman! Ei, ei!” 

If ever a human being licked its chops, that 
woman did. 

She wagged her head and repeated to her- 
self : “Ei, ei!” adding, as if to explain her sur- 
prise, “he is the first we have had. 

“You brought him here, eh! But why up 
here? Or did der Stelze send him?” 

She fired this string of questions at me with- 
out pausing for a reply. She continued: 

“I was out, but Karl told me. There was 
another came, too : Franz sent him. ’ ’ 

“This is he,” I said. “I caught him prying 
in my room and he died.” 

“Ach!” she ejaculated . . . and in her 
voice was all the world of admiration that a 
German woman feels for brute man. . . . 
“The Herr Englander came into your room 
and he died. So, so! But one must speak to 
Franz. The man drinks too much. He is 
always drunk. He makes mistakes. It wiU 
not do. I will. . . .” 

“I wish you to do nothing against Franz,” I 
said. “This Englishman spoke German well: 
Karl will tell you.” 


50 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


‘‘As the gentleman wishes,’’ was the woman’s 
reply in a voice so silky and so servile that I 
felt my gorge rise. 

“She looks like a slug!” I said to myself, as 
she stood there, fat and sleek and horrible. 

“Here are his passport and other papers,” 
I said, bending down and taking them from 
the dead man’s pocket. “He was an English 
officer, you see!” And I unfolded the little 
black book stamped with the Eoyal Arms. 

She leant forward and I was all but stifled 
with the stale odor of the patchouli with which 
her faded body was drenched. 

Then, making a sheaf of passport and permit, 
I held them in the flame of the candle. 

“But we always keep them!” expostulated 
the hotel-keeper. 

“This passport must die with the man,” I 
replied firmly. “He must not be traced. I 
want no awkward enquiries made, you under- 
stand. Therefore . . . ” and I flung the burn- 
ing mass of papers into the grate. 

“Good, good!” said the German and put her 
lamp down on the table. “There was a tele- 
phone message for you,” she added, “to say 
that der Stelze will come at eight in the morn- 
ing to receive what you have brought.” 

The deuce ! This was getting awkward. Who 
the devil was Stelze? 


THE LADY OF THE VOS IN’T TUINTJE 51 


^‘Coming at eight is he?” I said, simply for 
the sake of saying something. 

‘‘Jawohl!” replied Frau Schratt. ‘‘He was 
here already this morning. He was nervous, 
oh ! very, and expected you to be here. Already 
two days he is waiting here to go on. ’ ’ 

“So,” I said, “he is going to take ,,, it 
on with him, is he?” (I Imew where he was 
“going on” to, well enough: he was going to 
see that document safe into Germany.) 

There was a malicious ring in the woman ^s 
voice when she spoke of Stelze. I thought I 
might profit by this. So I drew her out. 

“So Stelze called to-day and gave you his 
orders, did he?” I said, “and . . . and took 
charge of things generally, eh?” 

Her little eyes snapped viciously. 

“Achl” she said, “der Stelze is der Stelze. 
He has power; he has authority; he can make 
and unmake men. But I . . . I in my time 
have broken a dozen better men than he and yet 
he dares to tell Anna Schratt that . . . 
that . . . ” 

She raised her voice hysterically, but broke 
off before she could finish the sentence. I saw 
she thought she had said too much. 

“He won’t play that game with me,” I said. 
Strength is the quality that every German, man, 
woman and child, respects, and strength alone. 


52 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

My safety depended on my showing this 
ignoble creature that I received orders from 
no one. “You know what he is. One runs the 
risk, one takes trouble, one is successful. Then 
he steps in and gathers the laurels. No, I am 
not going to wait for him.” 

The hotel-keeper sprang to her feet, her 
faded face all ravaged by the shadow of a great 
fear. 

“You wouldnT dare!” she said. 

“I would,” I retorted. “I’ve done my work 
and I’ll report to headquarters and to no one 
else!” 

My eyes fell upon the body. 

“Now, what are we going to do with this I” 
I said. “You must help me, Frau Schratt. 
This is serious. This must not be found here. ’ ’ 

She looked up at me in surprise. 

“That?” she said, and she kicked the body 
with her foot. “Oh, that will be all right with 
die Schratt! ‘It must not be found here’” 
(she mimicked my grave tone). “It will not be 
found here, young man!” 

And she chuckled with all the full-bodied 
good humor of a fat person. 

“You mean?” 

“I mean what I mean, young man, and what 
you mean,” she replied. “When they are in a 
dijficulty, when there are complications, when 


THE LADY OF THE VOS INT TUINTJE 5J 

there is any unpleasantness . . . like this . . . 
they remember die Schratt, ‘die fesche Anna/ 
as they called me once, and it is ‘gnadige Frau^ 
here and ‘gnadige Frau’ there and a diamond 
bracelet or a pearl ring, if only I will do the 
little conjuring trick that will smooth every- 
thing over. But when all goes well, then I am 
‘old Schratt,’ ‘old hag,’ ‘old woman,’ and I 
must take my orders and beg nicely and . . . 
bah!” 

Her words ended in a gulp, which in any 
other woman would have been a sob. 

Then she added in her hard harlot’s voice: 

“You needn’t worry your head about him, 
there! Leave him to me! It’s my trade!” 

At those words, which covered God only 
knows what horrors of midnight disappear- 
ances, of ghoulish rites with packing-case and 
sack, in the dark cellars of that evil house, I 
felt that, could I but draw back from the enter- 
prise to which I had so rashly committed my- 
self, I would do so gladly. Only then did I be- 
gin to realize something of the utter ruthless- 
ness, the cold, calculating ferocity, of the most 
bitter and most powerful enemy which the 
British Empire has ever had. 

But it was too late to withdraw now. The 
die was cast. Destiny, knocking at my door, 
had found me ready to follow, and I was com- 


54 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 

mitted to whatever might befall me in my new 
personality. 

The German woman turned to go. 

‘‘Der Stelze will be here at eight, then,’’ she 
said. ‘‘I suppose the gentleman will take his 
early morning coffee before.” 

shan’t be here,” I said. ‘‘You can tell 
your friend I’ve gone.” 

She turned on me like a flash. 

She was hard as flint again. 

“NeinI” she cried. “You stay here!” 

“No,” I answered with equal force, “not 
I . . .” 

“ . . . Orders are orders and you and I must 
obey!” 

‘ ^ But who is Stelze that he should give orders 
to me?” I cried. 

“Who is . . She spoke aghast. 

“. . . And you yourself,” I continued, 
“were saying . . .” 

“When an order has been given, what you 
or I think or say is of no account,” the woman 
said. “It is an order; you and I know whose 
order. Let that suffice. You stay here ! Good 
night!” 

With that she was gone. She closed the door 
behind her; the key rattled in the lock and I 
realized that I was a prisoner. I heard the 
woman’s footfalls die away down the corridor. 


THE LADY OF THE VOS INT TUINTJE 53 


That distant clock cleaved the silence of the 
night with twelve ponderous strokes. Then 
the chimes played a pretty jingling little tune 
that rang out clearly in the still, rain-washed 
air. 

I stood petrified and reflected on my next 
move. 

Twelve o’clock! I had eight hours’ grace 
before Stelze, the man of mystery and might, 
arrived to unmask me and hand me over to the 
tender mercies of Madame and of Karl. Be- 
fore eight o ’clock arrived I must — so I summed 
up my position — be clear of the hotel and in the 
train for the German frontier — if I could get a 
train — else I must be out of Eotterdam, by 
that hour. 

But I must act and act without delay. There 
was no knowing when that dead man lying on 
the floor might procure me another visit from 
Madame and her myrmidons. The sooner I 
was out of that house of death the better. 

The door was solid; the lock was strong. 
That I discovered without any trouble. In any 
case, I reflected, the front-door of the hotel 
would be barred and bolted at this hour of the 
night, and I could scarcely dare hope to escape 
by the front without detection, even if Karl 
were not actually in the entrance hall. There 
must be a back entrance to the hotel, I thought. 


5<5 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


for I had seen that the windows of my room 
opened on to the narrow street lining the canal 
which ran at the back of the house. 

Escape by the windows was impossible. The 
front of the house dropped sheer down and there 
was nothing to give one a foothold. But I re- 
membered the window in the cabinet de toilette 
giving on to the little air-shaft. That seemed 
to offer a slender chance of escape. 

For the second time that night I opened the 
casement and inhaled the fetid odors arising 
from the narrow court. All the windows look- 
ing, like mine, upon the air-shaft were shrouded 
in darkness: only a light still burned in the 
window beneath the grating with the iron stair 
to the little yard. What was at the foot of the 
stair I could not descry, but I thought I could 
recognize the outline of a door. 

From the window of the cabinet de toilette to 
the yard the sides of the house, cased in stained 
and dirty stucco, fell sheer away. Measured 
with the eye the drop from the window to the 
pavement was about fifty feet. With a rope 
and something to break one^s fall it might, I 
fancied, be managed. . . . 

From that on, things moved swiftly. First 
with my penknife I ripped the tailor’s tab with 
my name from the inside pocket of my coat 
and burnt it in the candle : nothing else I had 


THE LADY OF THE VOS INT TUINTJE 57 

on was marked, for I had had to buy a lot of 
new garments when I came out of hospital. I 
took Semlin’s overcoat, hat and bag into the 
cabinet de toilette and stood them in readiness 
by the window. As a precaution against sur- 
prise I pushed the massive mahogany bedstead 
right across the doorway and thus barricaded 
the entrance to the room. 

From either side of the fireplace hung two 
bell-ropes, twisted silk cords of faded crimson 
with dusty tassels. Mounting on the mantle- 
piece I cut the bell-ropes oif short where they 
joined the wire. Testing them I found them 
apparently solid — at any rate they must serve. 
I knotted them together. 

Back to the cabinet de toilette I went to find 
a suitable object to which to fasten my rope. 
There was nothing in the little room save the 
washstand, and that was fragile and quite un- 
suited for the purpose. I noticed that the win- 
dow was fitted with shutters on the outside fast- 
ened back against the wall. They had not been 
touched for years, I should say, for the iron 
peg holding them back was heavy with rust and 
the shutters were covered with dust. I closed 
the left-hand shutter and found that it fastened 
solidly to the window-frame by means of mas- 
sive iron bolts, top and bottom. 

Here was the required support for my rope. 


58 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

The poker thrust through the wooden slips 
the shutter held the rope quite solidly. I at- 
tached my rope to the poker with an expert 
knot that I had picked up at a course in tying 
knots during a preposterously dull week I had 
spent at the base in France. Then I dragged 
from the bed the gigantic eiderdown pin- 
cushion and the two massive pillows, stripping 
off the pillow-slips lest their whiteness might 
attract attention whilst they were fulfilling the 
unusual mission for which I destined them. 

At the window of the cabinet de toilette I 
listened a moment. All was silent as the grave. 
Resolutely I pitched out the eiderdown into the 
dark and dirty air shaft. It sailed gracefully 
earthwards and settled with a gentle plop on 
the stones of the tiny yard. The pillows fol- 
lowed. The heavier thud they would have made 
was deadened by the billowy mass of the edre- 
don, Semlin’s bag went next, and made no 
sound to speak of; then his overcoat and hat 
followed suit. 

I noticed, with a grateful heart, that the 
eiderdown and pillows covered practically the 
whole of the flags of the yard. 

I went back once more to the room and blew 
out the candle. Then, taking a short hold on 
my silken rope, I clambered out over the win- 
dow ledge and started to let myself down. 


THE LADY OF THE VOS IWT TUINTJE 5p 

My two bell-ropes, knotted together, were 
about twenty feet long, so I had to reckon on a 
clear drop of something over thirty feet. The 
poker and shutter held splendidly firm, and I 
found little difficulty in lowering myself, though 
I barked my knuckles most unpleasantly on 
the rough stucco of the wall. As I reached the 
extremity of my rope I glanced downward. The 
red splash of the eiderdown, just visible in the 
light from the adjoining window, seemed to be 
a horrible distance below me. My spirit failed 
me. My determination began to ebb. I could 
never risk it. 

The rope settled the question for me. It 
snapped without warning — how it had support- 
ed my weight up to then I don’t know — and I 
fell in a heap (and, as it seemed to me at the 
time, with a most reverberating crash) on to 
the soft divan I had prepared for my reception. 

I came down hard, very hard, but old Mad- 
ame ’s plump eiderdown and pillows certainly 
helped to break my fall. I dropped square on 
top of the eiderdown with one knee on a pillow 
and, though shaken and jarred, I found I had 
broken no bones. 

Nor did my senses leave me. In a minute I 
was up on my feet again. I listened. All was 
still silent. I cast a glance upwards. The win- 
dow from which I had descended was still dark. 


6o THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


I could see the broken bell-ropes dangling from 
the shutter, and I noted, with a glow of profes- 
sional pride, that my expert join between the 
two ropes had not given. The lower rope had 
parted in the middle. . . . 

I crammed Semlin’s hat on my head, re- 
trieved his bag and overcoat from the corner 
of the court where they had fallen and the next 
moment was tiptoeing down the ladder. 

The iron stair ran down beside the window 
in which I had seen the light burning. The 
lower part of the window was screened off by a 
dirty muslin curtain. Through the upper part 
I caught a glimpse of a sort of scullery with a 
paraffin lamp standing on a wooden table. The 
room was empty. From top to bottom the win- 
dow was protected by heavy iron bars. 

At the foot of the iron stair stood, as I had 
anticipated, a door. It was my last chance of 
escape. It stood a dozen yards from the bottom 
of the ladder across a dank, little paved area 
where tins of refuse were standing — a small 
door with a brass handle. 

I ducked low as I clambered down the iron 
ladder so as not to be seen from the window 
should anyone enter the scullery as I passed. 
Treading very softly I crept across the little 
area and, as quietly as I could, turned the 
handle of the door. 


THE LADY OF THE VOS INT TUINTJE 6i 


It turned round easily in my hand, but no- 
thing happened. 

The door was locked. 


CHAPTER VI 


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN AND LEAVE A LAMB 
GENTLEMAN ON THE PLATFORM 

I WAS caught like a rat in a trap. I could 
not return by the way I had come and the 
only egress was closed to me. The area 
door and window were the only means of es- 
cape from the little court. The one was locked, 
the other barred. I was fairly trapped. All I 
had to do now was to wait until my absence was 
discovered and the broken rope found to show 
them where I was. Then they would come 
down to the area, I should be confronted with 
the man, Stelze, and my goose would be fairly 
cooked. 

As quietly as I could I made a complete, 
thorough, rapid examination of the area. It 
was a dank, dark place, only lit where the yel- 
low light streamed forth from the scullery. It 
had a couple of low bays hollowed out of the 
masonry under the little court-yard, the one 


62 


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN (tj 

filled with wood blocks, the other with broken 
packing-cases, old bottles and like rubbish. I 
explored these until my hands came in contact 
with the damp bricks at the back, but in vain. 
Door and window remained the only means of 
escape. 

Four tall tin refuse bins stood in line in front 
of these two bays, a fifth was stowed away 
under the iron stair. They were all nearly full 
of refuse, so were useless as hiding-places. In 
any case it accorded neither with the part I 
was playing nor with iny sense of the ludicrous 
to be discovered by the hotel domestics hiding 
in a refuse bin. 

I was at my wits’ end to know what to do. I 
had dared so much, all had gone so surprisingly 
well, that it was heartbreaking to be foiled with 
liberty almost within my grasp. A great wave 
of disappointment swept over me until I felt 
my very heart sicken. Then I heard footsteps 
and hope revived within me. 

I shrunk back into the darkness of the area 
behind the refuse bins standing in front of the 
bay nearest the door. 

Within the house footsteps were approaching 
the scullery. I heard a door open, then a man’s 
voice singing. He was warbling in a fine mel- 
low baritone that popular German ballad: 

“Das haben die Madchen so gerne 
Die im Stiibchen und die im Salona** 


64 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

The voice hung lovingly and wavered and 
trilled on that word **8along**i the effect was 
so much to the singer’s liking that he sang the 
stave over again. A bumping and a rattle as 
of loose objects in an empty box formed the 
accompaniment to his song. 

^‘A cheery fellow!” I said to myself. If only 
I could see who it was ! But I dare not move 
into that patch of yellow light from which the 
only view into the scullery was afforded. 

The singing stopped. Again I heard a door 
open. Was he going away? Then I saw a thin 
shaft of light under the area door. 

The next moment it was flung back and the 
waiter, Karl, appeared, still in his blue apron, 
a bucket in either hand. 

He was coming to the refuse bins. 

Pudd’n Head Wilson’s advice came into my 
mind: ‘‘When angry count up to four: when 
very angry, swear.” I was not angry but 
scared, terribly scared, scared so that I could 
hear my heart pulsating in great thuds in my 
ears. Nevertheless, I followed the advice of 
the sage of Dawson’s Landing and counted to 
myself: one, two, three, four, one, two, three, 
four; while my heart hammered out: keep- 
cool, keep-cool, keep-cool! And aU the time I 
remained crouching behind the firsx two refuse 
bins nearest the door. 


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 63 

The waiter hummed to himself the melody 
of his little ditty in a deep bourdon as he paused 
a moment at the door. Then he advanced slow- 
ly across the area. 

Would he stop at the refuse bins behind 
which I cowered? 

No, he passed them. 

The third? The fourth? 

No I 

He walked straight across the area and went 
to the bin beneath the stairs. 

I muttered a blessing inwardly on the care- 
ful habits of the German who organizes even 
his refuse into separate tubs. 

The man had his back to the door. 

Now or never was my chance. 

I crawled round my friendly garbage bins, 
reached the area door on tip-toe and stepped 
softly into the house. As I did so I heard the 
clank of tin as Karl replaced the lid of the tub. 

A dark passage stretched out in front of me. 
Immediately to my right was the scullery door 
wide open. I must avoid the scullery at all 
costs. The man might remain there and I could 
not risk him driving me before him back to the 
entrance hall of the hotel. 

I crept down the dark passage with hands 
outstretched. Presently they fell upon the 
latch of a door. I pressed it, the door opened 


66 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


inwards into the darkness and I passed through. 
As I softly closed the door behind me I heard 
KarPs heavy step and the grinding of the key 
as he locked the area door. 

I stood in a kind of cupboard in pitch dark- 
ness, hardly daring to breathe. 

Once more I heard the man singing his idiotic 
Song. I did not dare look out from my hiding- 
place, for his voice sounded so near that I 
feared he might be still in the passage. 

So I stood and waited. 


I must have stayed there for an hour in the 
dark. I heard the waiter coming and going in 
the scullery, listened to his heavy tramp, to his 
everlasting snatch of song, to the rattle of uten- 
sils, as he went about his work. Every minute 
of the time I was tortured by the apprehension 
that he would come to the cupboard in the pas- 
sage. 

It was cold in that damp subterranean place. 
The cupboard was roomy enough, so I thought 
I would put on the overcoat I was carrying. 
As I stretched out my arm, my hand struck 
hard against some kind of projecting hook in 
the wall behind me. 

‘^Damn!’' I swore savagely under my breath, 
but I put out my hand again to find out what 


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN d; 

had hurt me. My fingers encountered the cold 
iron of a latch. I pressed it and it gave. 

A door swung open and I found myself in 
another little area with a fiight of stone steps 
leading to the street. 


I was in a narrow lane driven between the 
tall sides of the houses. It was a cul-de-sac. 
At the open end I could see the glimmer of 
street lamps. It had stopped raining and the 
air was fresh and pleasant. Carrying my bag 
I walked briskly down the lane and presently 
emerged in a quiet thoroughfare traversed by a 
canal — ^probably the street, I thought, that I 
had seen from the windows of my bedroom. 
The Hotel Sixt lay to the right of the lane: I 
struck out to the left and in a few minutes 
found myself in an open square behind the 
Bourse. 

There I found a cab-rank with three or four 
cabs drawn up in line, the horses somnolent, the 
drivers snoring inside their vehicles. I stirred 
up the first and bade the driver take me to the 
Cafe Tamowski. 

Everyone who has been to Holland knows 
the Cafe Tarnowski at Rotterdam. It is an 
immense place with hundreds of marble-topped 
tables tucked away among palms under a vast 


68 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


glazed roof. Day or night it never closes: the 
waiters succeed each other in shifts: day and 
night the great hall resounds to the cry of ord- 
ers, the patter of the waiters’ feet, the click of 
dominoes on the marble tables. 

Delicious Dutch cafe au lait, a beefsteak and 
fried potatoes, most succulent of all Dutch 
dishes, crisp white bread, hot from the midnight ^ 
baking, and appetizing Dutch butter, largely || 
compensated for the thrills of the night. Then 
I sent for some more coifee, black this time, j 
and a railway guide, and lighting a cigarette i 

began to frame my plan of campaign. j 

The train for Berlin left Eotterdam at seven i 
in the morning. It was now ten minutes past ■ 
two, so I had plenty of time. From that night I 
onward, I told myself, I was a German, and 
from that moment I set myself assiduously to ^ 
feel myself a German as well as enact the part. 

‘‘It’s no use dressing a part,” Francis used 
to say to me; “you must feel it as well. If I 
were going to disguise myself as a Berliner, I 
should not be content to shave my head and 
wear a bowler hat with a morning coat and get 
my nails manicured pink. I should begin by 
persuading myself that I was the Lord of crea- ' 
tion, that bad manners is a sign of manly | 
strength and that dishonesty is the highest 
form of diplomacy.” 


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 6p 

Poor old Francis ! How slirewd he was and 
how well he knew his Berliners ! 

There is nothing like newspapers for giving 
one an idea of national sentiment. I had not 
spoken to a German, save to a few terrified 
German rats, prisoners of war in France, since 
the beginning of the war and I knew that my 
knowledge of German thought must be rusty. 
So I sent the willing waiter for all the German 
papers and periodicals he could lay his hands 
on. He returned with stacks of them, Berliner 
Tagehlatt, Kolnische Zeitung, Vorwdrts; the 
alleged comic papers, Kladderadatsch, Lustige 
Blatter and Simplicissimus ; the illustrated 
press, Leipzig er Illustrirte Zeitung, Der Welt- 
krieg im Bild, and the rest: that remarkable 
cafe even took in such less popular publications 
as Harden’s Zukunft and semi-blackmailing 
rags like Der Roland von Berlin, 

For two hours I saturated myself with Ger- 
man contemporary thought as expressed in 
the German press. I deliberately laid my mind 
open to conviction; I repeated to myself over 
and over again: ‘‘We Germans are fighting a 
defensive war: the scoundrelly Grey made the 
world- war: Gott strafe England!” Absurd as 
this proceeding seems to me when I look back 
upon it, I would not laugh at myself at the time. 
I must be German, I must feel German, I must 


70 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

think German: on that would my safety in the 
immediate future depend. 

I laid aside my reading in the end with a 
feeling of utter amazement. In every one of 
these publications, in peace-time so widely j 
dissimilar in conviction and trend, I found | 
the same mentality, the same outlook, the same ; 
parrot-like cries. What the Cologne Gazette ; 
shrieked from its editorial columns, the comic ; 
(God save the mark) press echoed in foul and 
hideous caricature. Here was organization 
with a vengeance, the mobilization of national 
thought, a series of gramophone records fed j 
into a thousand different machines so that each I 
might play the selfsame tune. ' 

‘‘You needn^t worry about your German ! 

mentality,’’ I told myself, “you’ve got it all 
here! You’ve only got to be a parrot like the 
rest and you’ll be as good a Hun as Hinden- 
burg ! ” i 

A Continental waiter, they say, can get one 
anything one chooses to ask for at any hour of 
the day or night. I was about to put this theory i 
to the test. i 

“Waiter,” I said (of course, in German), “I 
want a bag, a handbag. Do you think you could j 

get me one?” | 

“Does the gentleman want it now?” the man I 
replied. I 


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 71 

“This very minute,’’ I answered. 

“About that size?” — indicating Semlin’s. 

“Yes, or smaller if you like: I am not par- 
ticular.” 

“I will see what can be done.” 

In ten minutes the man was back with a 
brown leather bag about a size smaller than 
Semlin’s. It was not new and he charged me 
thirty gulden (which is about fifty shillings) 
for it. I paid with a willing heart and tipped 
him generously to boot, for I wanted a bag and 
could not wait till the shops opened without 
missing the train for Germany. 

I paid my bill and drove off to the Central 
Station through the dark streets with my two 
bags. The clocks were striking six as I en- 
tered under the great glass dome of the station 
haU. 

I went straight to the booking-office, and 
bought a first-class ticket, single, to Berlin. 
One never knows what may happen and I had 
several things to do before the train went. 

The bookstall was just opening. I purchased 
a sovereign’s worth of books and magazines, 
English, French and German, and crammed 
them into the bag I had procured at the cafe. 
Thus laden I adjourned to the station buff et. 

There I set about executing a scheme I had 
evolved for leaving the document which Semlin 


THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

had brought from England in a place of safety, 
whence it could be recovered without difficulty, 
should anything happen to me. I knew no one 
in Holland save Dicky, and I could not send 
him the document, for I did not trust the post. 
For the same reason I would not post the docu- 
ment home to my bank in England: besides, I 
knew one could not register letters until eight 
o^clock, by which hour I hoped to be well on 
my way into Germany. 

No, my bag, conveniently weighted with 
books and deposited at the station cloak- 
room, should be my safe. The comparative 
security of station cloak-rooms as safe deposits 
has long been recognized by jewel thieves 
and the like and this means of leaving my docu- 
ment behind in safety seemed to me to be better 
than any other I could think of. 

So I dived into my bag and from the piles of 
literature it contained picked up a book at ran- 
dom. It was a German brochure: Gott strafe 
England! by Prof. Dr. Hugo Bischoff, of the 
University of Gottingen. The irony of the 
thing appealed to my sense of humor. “So be 
it ! ” I said. ‘ ‘ The worthy Professor ’s f ulmina- 
tions against my country shall have the honor 
of harboring the document which is, apparent- 
ly, of such value to his country ! ’ ’ And I tucked 
the little canvas case away inside the pages of 


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 


73 

the pamphlet, stuck the pamphlet deep down 
among the books and shut the bag. 

Seeing its harmless appearance the cloak- 
room receipt — calculated — would, unlike Sem- 
lin^s document, attract no attention if, by any 
mischance, it fell into wrong hands en route. 
I therefore did not scruple to commit it to the 
post. Before taking my bag of books to the 
cloak-room I wrote two letters. Both were to 
Ashcroft — ^Ashcroft of the Foreign Office, who 
got me my passport and permit to come to Rot- 
terdam. Herbert Ashcroft and I were old 
friends. I addressed the envelopes to his pri- 
vate house in London. The Postal Censor, I 
knew, keen though he always is after letters 
from neutral countries, would leave old Her- 
bert’s correspondence alone. 

The first letter was brief. ‘‘Dear Herbert,” 
I wrote, “would you mind looking after the en- 
closed until you hear from me again? Filthy 
weather here. Yours, D. 0.” This letter was 
destined to contain the cloak-room receipt. To 
conceal the importance of an enclosure, it is al- 
ways a good dodge to send the covering letter 
under separate cover. 

“Dear Herbert,” I said in my second letter, 
“If you don’t hear from me within two months 
of this date regarding the enclosure you will 
have already received, please send someone, or, 


74 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 

preferably, go yourself and collect my luggage 
at the cloak-room of the Rotterdam Central Sta- 
tion. I know how busy you always are. There- 
fore you will understand my reasons for mak- 
ing this inordinate claim upon your time. 
Yours, D. 0.’’ And, by way of a clue, I added, 
inconsequently enough: ‘‘Gott strafe Eng- 
land!’’ 

I chuckled inwardly at the thought of Her- 
bert’s face on receiving this preposterous de- 
mand that he should abandon his dusty desk 
in Downing Street and betake himself across 
the North Sea to fetch my luggage. But he’d 
go all right. I knew my Herbert, dull and dry 
and conventional, but a most faithful friend. 

I called a porter at the entrance of the buffet 
and handing him Semlin’s bag and overcoat, 
bade him find me a first-class carriage in the 
Berlin train when it arrived. I would meet him 
on the platform. Then, at the cloak-room op- 
posite, I gave in my bag of books, put the re- 
ceipt in the first letter and posted it in the let- 
ter-box within the station. I went out into the 
streets with the second letter and posted it in a 
letter-box let into the wall of a tobacconist’s 
shop in a quiet street a few turnings away. 
By this arrangement I reckoned Herbert would 
get the letter with the receipt before the cover- 
ing letter arrived. 


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 


75 


Returning to the railway station I noticed a 
kind of slop shop which despite the early hour 
was already open. A fat Jew in his shirt- 
sleeves, his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, 
stood at the entrance framed in hanging over- 
coats and hats and boots. I had no umbrella 
and it struck me that a waterproof of some kind 
might not be a bad addition to my extremely 
scanty wardrobe. Moreover, I reflected that 
with the rubber shortage rain-coats must be at 
a premium in Germany. 

So I followed the bowing son of Shem into 
his dark and dirty shop and emerged presently 
wearing an appallingly ugly green mackintosh 
reeking hideously of rubber. It was a shock- 
ing garment but I reflected that I was a German 
and must choose my garb accordingly. 

Outside the shop I nearly ran into a little 
man who was loafing in the doorway. He was 
a wizened, scrubby old fellow wearing a dirty 
peaked cap with a band of tarnished gold. I 
knew him at once for one of those guides, half 
tout, half bully, that infest the railway termini 
of all great Continental cities. 

‘‘Want a guide, sirT’ the man said in Ger- 
man. 

I shook my head and hurried on. The man 
trotted beside me. “Want a good, cheap hotel, 
sir! Good, respectable house. . . Want a . . 


76 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

“Ach! gehen Sie zum Teufel I cried an- 
grily. But the man persisted, running along 
beside me and reeling off his tout^s patter in a 
wheezing, asthmatic voice. I struck off blindly 
down the first turning we came to, hoping to be 
rid of the fellow, but in vain. Finally, I stop- 
ped and held out a gulden. 

‘^Take this and go away!’’ I said. 

The old fellow waved the coin aside. 

^‘Danke, danke,” he said nonchalantly, look- 
ing at the same time to right and left. 

Then he said in a calm English voice, utterly 
different from his whining accents of a moment 
before: ^‘You must be a dam’ cool hand!” 

But he didn’t bluff me, staggered though I 
was. I said quickly in German: 

^^WTiat do you want with me? I don’t under- 
stand you. If you annoy me any more I shall 
call the police ! ’ ’ 

Again he spoke in English and it was the 
voice of a well-bred Englishman that spoke : 

‘^You’re either a past master at the game or 
raving mad. Why! the whole station is hum- 
ming after you! Yet you walked out of the 
buffet and through the whole lot of them with- 
out turning a hair. No wonder they never spot- 
ted you!” 

Again I answered in German: 

^‘Ich verstehe nicht!” 


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 


77 


But he went on in English, without seeming 
to notice my observation: 

‘^Hang it all, man, you can^t go into Ger- 
many wearing a regimental tie!’’ 

My hand flew to my collar and the blood to 
my head. What a cursed amateur I was, after 
all ! I had entirely forgotten that I was wear- 
ing my regimental colors. I was crimson with 
vexation but also with a sense of relief. I felt 
I might trust this man. It would be a sharp 
German agent who would notice a small detail 
like that. 

Still I resolved to stick to German: I would 
trust nobody. 

But the guide had started his patter again. 
I saw two workmen approaching. Wlien they 
had passed, he said, this time in English : 

‘‘You’re quite right to he cautious with a 
stranger like me, but I want to warn you. WTiy, 
I’ve been following you round all the morning. 
Lufcky for you it was me and not one of the 
others. . . 

Still I was silent. The little man went on : 

“For the past half-hour they have been 
combing that station for you. How you 
managed to escape them I don’t know except 
that none of them seems to have a very clear 
idea of your appearance. You don’t look very 
British, I grant you ; but I spotted your tie and 


78 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

then I recognized the British officer all right 
‘‘No, donT worry to tell me anything about 
yourself — it is none of my business to know, 
any more than you will find out anything about 
me. 1 know where you are going, for I heard 
you take your ticket ; but you may as well under- 
stand that you have as much chance of getting 
into your train if you walk into the railway hall 
and up the stairs in the ordinary way as you 
have of flying across the frontier.^’ 

“But they canT stop me!’’ I said. “This 
isn’t Germany. . . .” 

‘ ‘ Bah ! ’ ’ said the guide. “You will be jostled, 
there will be an altercation, a false charge, and 
you will miss your train! They will attend to 
the rest! 

“Danm it, man,” he went on, “I know what 
I’m talking about. Here, come with me and 
I’ll show you. You have twenty minutes before 
the train goes. Now start the German again!” 

We went down the street together for all the 
world like a “mug” in tow of one of those 
blackguard guides. ‘As we approached the sta- 
tion the guide said in his whining German : 

“Pay attention to me now. I shall leave you 
here. Go to the suburban booking-office — the 
entrance is in the street to the left of the sta- 
tion hall. Go into the first-class waiting- room 
and look out of the window that gives on to the 


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 7p 

station hall. There you will see some of the 
forces mobilized against you. There is a regu- 
lar cordon of guides — like me — drawn across 
the entrances to the main-line platforms — unos- 
tentatiously, of course. If you look you will 
see plenty of plain-clothes Huns, too. . . 

‘‘Guides?’’ I said. 

He nodded cheerfully. 

“Looks bad for me, doesn’t it? But one gets 
better results by being one of them. Oh I it’s 
all right. In any case you’ve got to trust me 
now. 

“See here! When you have satisfied your- 
self that I ’m correct in what I say, take a plat- 
form ticket and walk upstairs to platform No. 
5. On that platform you will find a train. Go 
to the end where the metals run out of the sta- 
tion, where the engine would be coupled on, 
and get into the last first-class carriage. On 
no account move from there until you see me. 
Now then. I’ll have that gulden!” 

I gave him the coin. The old fellow looked at 
it and wagged his head, so I gave him another, 
whereupon he took off his cap, bowed low and 
hurried off. 

In the suburban side waiting-room I peered 
out of the window on to the station hall. True 
enough, I saw one, two, four, six guides loafing 
about the barriers leading to the main-line plat- 


8o THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


forms. There seemed to be a lot of people in 
the hall and certainly a number of the men pos- 
sessed that singular taste in dress, those rotun- 
dities of contour, by which one may distinguish 
the German in a crowd. 

I now had no hesitation in following the 
guide’s instructions to the letter. Platform 
No. 5 was completely deserted as I emerged 
breathless from the long staircase and I had no 
difficulty in getting into the last first-class 
carriage unobserved. I sat down by the win- 
dow on the far side of the carriage. 

Alongside it ran the brown panels and gold 
lettering of a German restaurant car. 

I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to 
seven. There was no sign of my mysterious 
friend. I wondered vaguely, too, what had be- 
come of my porter. True, there was nothing of 
importance in Semlin’s bag, but a traveller with 
luggage always commands more confidence 
than one without. 

Five minutes to seven! Still no word from 
the guide. The minutes ticked away. By 
Jove! I was going to miss the train. But I 
sat resolutely in my corner. I had put my 
trust in this man. I would trust him to the last. 

Suddenly his face appeared in the window at 
my elbow. The door was flung open. 

^ ^ Quick ! ”he whispered inmyear, ‘ ‘ follow me. ’ ’ 


I BOARD THE BERLIN TRAIN 8i 

“My things . . I gasped with one foot 
on the foot-board of the other train. At the 
same moment the train began to move. 

The guide pointed to the carriage into which 
I had clambered. 

“The porter . . .’’I cried from the open 
door, thinking he had not understood me. 

The guide pointed towards the carriage 
again, then tapped himself on the chest with a 
significant smile. 

The next moment he had disappeared and I 
had not even thanked him. 

The Berlin train bumped ponderously out of 
the station. Peering cautiously out of the car- 
riage, I caught a glimpse of the waiter, Karl, 
hurrying down the platform. With him was a 
swarthy, massively built man who leaned heav- 
ily on a stick and limped painfully as he ran. 
One of his feet, I could see, was misshapen and 
the sweat was pouring down his face. 

I would have liked to wave my hand to the 
pair, but I prudently drew back out of sight of 
the platform. 

Caution, caution, caution, must henceforward 
be my watchword. 


CHAPTER Vn 


IN WHICH A SILVEB STAR ACTS AS A CHARM 

HAVE often remarked in life that there 



to be guiding one’s every action. On such 


are days when some benevolent deity seems 


days, do what you will, you cannot go wrong. 
As the Berlin train bumped thunderously over 
the culverts spanning the canals between the 
tall, grey houses of Rotterdam and rushed out 
imperiously into the plain of wind-mills and 
pollards beyond, I reflected that this must be 
my good day, so kindly had some fairy god- 
mother shepherded my footsteps since I had left 
the cafe. 

So engrossed had I been, indeed, in the great 
enterprise on which I was embarked, that my 
actions throughout the morning had been main- 
ly automatic. Yet how uniformly had they 
tended to protect me! I had bought my ticket 
in advance; I had given my overcoat and bag 
to a porter that I now knew to have been my 


82 


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM 83 


savior in disguise ; I had sallied forth from the 
station and thus given him an opportunity for 
safe converse with me. The omens were good : 
I could trust my luck to-day, I felt, and, greatly 
comforted, I began to look about me. 

I found myself, the only occupant, in a first- 
class carriage. On the window was plastered a 
notice, in Dutch and German, to the effect that 
the carriage was reserved. Suddenly I thought 
of my bag and overcoat. They were nowhere 
to be seen. After a little search I found them 
beneath the seat. In the overcoat pocket was 
a black tie. 

I lost no time in taking the hint. If any of 
you who read this tale should one day notice a 
ganger on the railway between Rotterdam and 
Dordrecht wearing the famous colors of a 
famous regiment round his neck you will under- 
stand how they got there. Then, wearied out 
with the fatigues of my sleepless night, I fell 
into a deep slumber, my verdant waterproof 
swathed round me, Semlin's overcoat about my 
knees. 


I was dreaming fitfully of a mad escape from 
hordes of wildly clutching guides, led by Karl 
the waiter, when the screaming of brakes 


84 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

brought me to my senses. The train was 
sensibly slackening speed. Outside the autumn 
sun was shining over pleasant brown stretches 
of moorland bright with heather. The next 
moment and before I was fully awake we had 
glided to a standstill at a very spick and span 
station and the familiar cry of ‘‘Alles aus- 
steigen ! ’ ^ rang in my ears. 

We were in Germany. 

The realization fell upon me like a thunder- 
clap. I was in the enemy’s country, sailing 
under false colors, with only the most meagre 
information about the man whose place I had 
taken and no plausible tale, such as I had fully 
intended to have ready, to carry me through 
the rigorous scrutiny of the frontier police. 

What was my firm? The Halewright Manu- 
facturing Company. What did we manufac- 
ture? I had not the faintest idea. WTiy was I 
coming to Germany at all? Again I was at a 
loss. 

The clink of iron-shod heels in the corridor 
and an officer, followed closely by two privates, 
the white cross of the Landwehr in their hel- 
mets, stood at the door. 

‘‘Your papers, please,” he said curtly but 
politely. 

I handed over my American passport. 

“This has not been vised,” said the officer. 


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM 83 


With a pang I realized that again T was at 
fault. Of course, the passport should have 
been stamped at the German Consulate at 
Rotterdam. 

had no time,’’ I said boldly. “I am trav- 
elling on most important business to Berlin. 
... I only reached Rotterdam last night, 
after the Consulate was closed.” 

The lieutenant turned to one of his guards. 

^‘Take the gentleman to the Customs Hall,” 
he said and went on to the next carriage. 

The soldier appropriated my overcoat and 
bag and beckoned me to follow him. Outside 
the platform was railed off. Everyone, I no- 
ticed, was shepherded into a long narrow pen 
made with iron hurdles leading to a locked door 
over which was writen: Zoll-Revision. I was 
going to take my place in the queue when the 
soldier prodded me with his elbow. He led me 
to a side door which opened in the gaunt, bare 
Customs Hall with its long row of trestles for 
the examination of the passengers’ luggage. 
In a corner behind a desk was a large group of 
officers and subordinate officials, all in the grey- 
green uniform I knew so well from* the life" in 
the trenches. The principal seemed to be an 
immense man, inordinately gross and fat, with 
a bloated face and great gold spectacles. He 
was roaring in a loud, angry voice : 


86 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


‘^He^s not come! There you are! Again 
we shall have all the trouble for nothing ! ^ ' 

I thought he looked an extraordinarily bad- 
tempered individual and I fervently prayed 
that I should not be brought before him. 

The doors were flung open. With a rush the 
hall was invaded with a heterogeneous mob of 
people huddled pellmell together and driven 
along before a line of soldiers. For an hour or 
more babel reigned. Officials bawled at the 
public : the place rang with the sounds of angry 
altercation. After a furious dispute one man, 
wildly gesticulating, was dragged away by bvo 
soldiers. 

I never saw such a thorough examination in 
my life. People’s bags were literally turned 
upside down and every single object pried into 
and besnuffled. After the customs ’ examina- 
tion passengers were passed on to the search- 
ing rooms, the men to one side, the women to 
the other. I caught sight of a female searcher 
lolling at a door ... a monstrous and grim 
female who reminded me of those dreadful 
bathing women at the seaside in our early 
youth. 

The fat official had vanished into an office 
leading off the Customs Hall. He was, I sur- > 
mised, the last instance, for several passengers, 
including a very respectably dressed old lady. 


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM 5/ 

were driven into the side office and were seen 
no more. 

During all this scene of confusion no one had 
taken any notice of me. My guard looked 
straight in front of him and said never a word. 
When the hall was all hut cleared, a man came 
to the office door and made a sign to my sen- 
tinel. 

At a table in the office which, despite the sun- 
shine outside, was heated like a greenhouse, I 
found the fat official. Something had evidently 
upset him, for his brows were clouded with 
anger and his mastiff-like cheeks were tremb- 
ling with irritation. He thrust a hand out as 
I entered. 

‘‘Your papers!’’ he grunted. 

I handed over my passport. 

Directly he had examined it, a red flush 
spread over his cheeks and forehead and he 
brought his hand down on the table with a 
crash. The sentry beside me winced percep- 
tibly. 

“It’s not vised,” the fat official screamed in 
a voice shrill with anger. “It’s worthless . . . 
what good do you think is this to me?” 

“Excuse me . . . ” I said in German. 

“I won’t excuse you,” he roared. “WHio are 
you? What do you want in Germany? You’ve 
been to London, I see by this passport.” 


88 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


‘‘I had no time to get my passport stamped 
at the Consulate at Eotterdam, ’ ’ I said. ^ ‘ I ar- 
rived there too late in the evening. I could not 
wait. I am going to Berlin on most important 
business.’’ 

“That’s nothing to do with it,” the man 
shouted. He was working himself up into a 
fine frenzy. “Your passport is not in order. 
You’re not a German. You’re an American. 
We Germans know what to think of our Ameri- 
can friends, especially those who come from 
London.” 

A voice outside shouted : ^ ‘ Nach Berlin alles 
einsteigen.” I said as politely as I could, des- 
pite my growing annoyance: 

“I don’t wish to miss my train. My journey 
to Berlin is of the utmost importance. I trust 
the train can be held back until I have satisfied 
you of my good faith. I have here a card from 
Herr von Steinhardt. ’ ’ 

I paused to let the name sink in. I was con- 
vinced he must be a big bug of some kind in the 
German service. 

“I don’t care a rap for Herr von Steinhardt 
or Herr von anybody else,” the German cried. 
Then he said curtly to a cringing secretary be- 
side him: “Has he been searched?” 

The secretary cast a frightened look at the 
sentry. 


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM 89 


‘^No, Herr Major/’ said the secretary. 

‘‘Well, take him away and strip him and 
bring me anything you find!” 

The sentry spun on his heel like an auto- 
maton. 

The moment had come to play my last card, 
I felt: I could not risk being delayed on the 
frontier lest Stelze and his friends should catch 
up with me. I was surprised to find that ap- 
parently they, had not telegraphed to have me 
stopped. 

“One moment, Herr Major,” I said. 

“Take him away!” The fat man waved me 
aside. 

“I warn you,” I continued, “that I am on 
important business. I can convince you of 
that, too. Only . . . ” and I looked round the 
office. “All these must go.” 

To my amazement the fat man’s anger 
vanished utterly. He stared hard at me, then 
took off his spectacles and polished them with 
his handkerchief. After this he said non- 
chalantly: “Everybody get outside except this 
gentleman ! ’ ’ The sentry, who had spun round 
on his heel again, seemed about to speak: his 
voice expired before it came out of his mouth: 
he saluted, spun round again and followed the 
rest out of the room. 

When the place was cleared I pulled my left 


po THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


brace out of the armhole of my waistcoat and 
displayed the silver star. 

The fat man sprang up. 

‘^The Herr Doktor must excuse me: I am 
overwhelmed: I had no idea that the Herr 
Doktor was not one of these tiresome American 
spies that are overruning our country. The 
Herr Doktor will understand. ... If the Herr 
Doktor had but said . . 

^^Herr Major/’ I said, endeavoring to put as 
much insolence as I could into my voice (that 
is what a German understands), ‘‘I am not in 
the habit of bleating my business to every fool 
I meet. Now I must go back to the train.” 

‘‘The Berlin train has gone, Herr Doktor, 
but ...” 

“The Berlin train gone?” I said. “But my 
business brooks no delay. I tell you I must be 
in Berlin to-night ! ’ ’ 

“There is no question of your taking the or- 
dinary train, Herr Doktor,” the fat man re- 
plied smoothly, “but unfortunately the special 
which I had ready for you has been counter- 
manded. I thought you were not coming 
again.” 

A special? By Jove ! I was evidently a per- 
sonage of note. But a special would never do I 
Where the deuce was it going to take me? 

“The Berlin train was to have been held back 


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM pi 

until your special was clear/’ the Major went 
on, ‘^but we must stop her at Wesel until you 
have passed. I will attend to that at once!” 

He gave some order down the telephone and 
after a brisk conversation turned to me with a 
beaming face: 

‘‘They will stop her at Wesel and the special 
will be ready in twenty-five minutes. But there 
is no hurry. You have an hour or more to 
spare. Might I o:ffer the Herr Doktor a glass 
of beer and a sandwich at our officers’ casino 
here?” 

Well, I was in for it this time. A special 
bearing me Heaven knows whither on unknown 
business . . . ! Perhaps I might be able to 
extract a little information out of my fat friend 
if I went with him, so I accepted his invitation 
with suitable condescension. 

The Major excused himself for an instant and 
returned with my overcoat and bag. 

“So!” he cried, “we can leave these here 
until we come back!” Behind him through the 
open door I saw a group of officials peering 
curiously into the room. As we walked through 
their midst, they fell back with precipitation. 
There was a positive reverence about their 
manner which I found extremely puzzling. 

A waggonette, driven by an orderly, stood 
in the station yard, one of the Customs officials, 


g2 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

hat in hand, at the door. We drove rapidly 
through very spick-and-span streets to a little 
square where the sentry at an iron gate denoted 
the Officers^ Club. In the anteroom four or 
five officers in field-grey uniform were lounging. 
As we entered they sprang to their feet and 
remained stiffly standing while the Major pre- 
sented them, Hauptmann Pfahl, Oberleutnant 
Meyer ... a string of names. One of the 
officers had lost an arm, another was very lame, 
the remainder were obvious dug-outs. 

‘‘An American gentleman, a good friend of 
ours/’ was the form in which the Major intro- 
duced me to the company. Again I found my- 
self mystified by the extraordinary demonstra- 
tions of respect with which I was received. 
Germans don’t like Americans, especially since 
they took to selling shells to the Allies, and I 
began to think that all these officers must know 
more about me and my mission than I did my- 
self. A stolid orderly, wearing white gloves, 
brought beer and some extraordinary nasty- 
looking sardine sandwiches which, on sampling, 
I realized to be made of “war bread.” 

While the beer was being poured out I 
glanced round the room, bare and very simply 
furnished. Terrible chromo-lithographs of the 
Kaiser and the Crown Prince hung on the walls 
above a glass filled with war trophies. With a 


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM pj 

horrible sickness at heart I recognized amongst 
other emblems a glengarry with a silver badge 
and a British steel helmet with a gaping hole 
through the crown. Then I remembered I was 
in the region of the Vllth Corps, which sup- 
plies some of our toughest opponents on the 
Western front. 

Conversation was polite and perfunctory. 

‘‘It is on occasions such as these,’’ said the 
lame officer, “that one recognizes how our 
brothers overseas are helping the German 
cause. ’ ’ 

“Your work must be extraordinarily inter- 
esting,” observed one of the dug-outs. 

“All your difficulties are now over,” said the 
Major, much in the manner of the chorus of a 
Greek play. “You will be in Berlin to-night, 
where your labors will be doubtless rewarded. 
American friends of Germany are not popular 
in London, I should imagine ! ’ ’ 

I murmured : ‘ ‘ Hardly. ’ ’ 

“You must possess infinite tact to have 
aroused no suspicion,” said the Major. 

“That depends,” I said. 

“Pardon me,” replied the Major, in whom I 
began to recognize all the signs of an unmiti- 
gated gossip, “I know something of the im- 
portance of your mission. I speak amongst 
ourselves, is it not so, gentlemen? There were 


P4 the man with the clubfoot 

special orders about you from the Corps Com- 
mand at Munster. Your special has been wait- 
ing for you here for four days. The gentleman 
who came to meet you has been in a fever of 
expectation. He had already left the station 
this morning when . . . when I met you. I 
sent word for him to pick you up here.’^ 

The plot was thickening. I most certainly 
was a personage of note. 

‘‘What part of America do you come from, 
Mr. Semlin?’^ said a voice in perfect English 
from the corner. The one-armed officer was 
speaking. 

“From Brooklyn,’’ I said stoutly, though my 
heart seemed turned to ice with the shock of 
hearing my own tongue. 

“You have no accent,” the other replied 
suavely. 

“Some Americans,” I retorted sententiously, 
“would regard that as a compliment. Not all 
Americans talk through their noses any more 
than we all chew or spit in public.” 

“I know,” said the young man. “I was 
brought up there!” 

We were surrounded by smiling faces. This 
officer who could speak English was evidently 
regarded as a bit of a wag by his comrades. I 
seized the opportunity to give them in German 
a humorous description of my simplicity in ex- 


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM 95 

plaining to a man brought up in the United 
States that all Americans were not the carica- 
tures depicted in the European comic press. 

There was a roar of laughter from the room. 

‘‘Ach, dieser Schmalz!’^ guffawed the Major, 
beating his thigh in ecstasy. ‘‘KolossalT’ 
echoed one of the dug-outs. The lame man 
smiled wanly and said it was ‘‘incredible how 
humorous Schmalz could be.” 

I had hoped that the conversation might now 
be carried on again in German. Nothing of the 
kind. The room leant back in its chairs, as if 
expecting the fun to go on. 

It did. 

“You get your clothes in London,” the young 
officer said. 

He was a trimly built young man, very pale 
from recent illness, with flaxen hair and a 
bright, bold blue eye — the eye of a fighter. His 
left sleeve was empty and was fastened across 
his tunic, in a button-hole of which was twisted 
the black and white ribbon of the Iron Cross. 

“Generally,” I answered shortly, “when I 
go to England. Clothes are cheaper in Lon- 
don.” 

“You must have a good ear for languages,” 
Schmalz continued; “you speak German like a 
German and English . . . ” he paused appre- 
ciably, . . like an Englishman.” 


p6 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

I felt horribly nervous. This young man 
never took his eyes off me : he had been staring 
at me ever since I had entered the room. His 
manner was perfectly calm and suave. 

Still I kept my end up very creditably, I 
think. 

‘‘And not a bad accomplishment, either,’’ I 
said, smiling brightly, “if one has to visit Lon- 
don in war-time.” 

Schmalz smiled back with perfect courtesy. 
But he continued to stare relentlessly at me. I 
felt scared. 

“What is Schmalz jabbering about now?” 
said one of the dug-outs. I translated for the 
benefit of the company. My resume gave the 
dug-out who had spoken the opportunity for 
launching out on an interminable anecdote 
about an ulster he had bought on a holiday at 
Brighton. The story lasted until the white- 
gloved orderly came and announced that “a 
gentleman” was there, asking for the Herr 
Major. 

“That’ll be your man,” exclaimed the Major, 
starting up — noticed he made no attempt to 
bring the stranger in. “Come, let us go to him I” 

I stood up and took my leave. Schmalz came 
to the door of the anteroom with us. 

“You are going to Berlin?” he asked. 

“Yes,” I renlied. 


A SILVER STAR ACTS AS A CHARM p; 

“Where shall you be staying?’’ he asked 
again. 

“Oh, probably at the Adlon!” 

“I myself shall be in Berlin next week for 
my medical examination, and perhaps we may 
meet again. I should much like to talk more 
with you about America ... and London. We 
must have mutual acquaintances.” 

I murmured something about being only too 
glad, at the same time making a mental note 
to get out of Berlin as soon as I conveniently 
could. 


CHAPTER Vm 


I HEAE OF CLUBFOOT AND MEET HIS EMPLOYEE 

A S we went down the staircase, the Major 
whispered to me : 

‘‘I don’t think your man wished me 
to know his name, for he did not introduce 
himself when he arrived and he does not come 
to our Casino. But I know him for all that: 
it is the young Count von Boden, of the Uhlans 
of the Guard : his father, the General, is one of 
the Emperor’s aides-de-camp: he was, for a 
time, tutor to the Crown Prince.” 

A motor-car stood at the door, in it a young 
man in a gray-blue military great-coat and a 
flat cap with a pink band round it. He sprang 
out as we appeared. His manner was most em- 
pressL He completely ignored my companion. 

‘‘I am extremely glad to see you, Herr Dok- 
tor,” he said. ‘‘You are most anxiously ex- 
pected. I must present my apologies for not 
being at the station to welcome you, but, appar- 


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT pp 

ently, there was some misunderstanding. The 
arrangements at the station for your reception 
seem to have broken down completely . . 
and he stared through his monocle at the old 
Major, who flushed with vexation. 

‘Mf you will step into my car,” the young 
man added, will drive you to the station. 
We need not detain this gentleman any longer.” 

I felt sorry for the old Major, who had re- 
mained silent under the withering insolence of 
this young lieutenant, so I shook hands with 
him cordially and thanked him for his hospital- 
ity. He was a jovial old fellow after all. 

The young Count drove himself and chatted 
amiably as we whirled through the streets. 
must introduce myself,” he said: ‘‘Lieutenant 
Count von Boden of the 2nd Uhlans of the 
Guard. I did not wish to say anything before 
that old chatterbox. I trust you have had a 
pleasant journey. Von Steinhardt, of our Le- 
gation at the Hague, was instructed to make all 
arrangements for your comfort on this side. 
But I was forgetting, you and he must be old 
acquaintances, Herr Doktorl” 

I said something appropriate about von 
SteinhardUs invariable kindness. Inwardly, I 
noted the explanation of the visiting card in 
the portfolio in my pocket. 

At the station we found two orderlies, one 


100 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


with my things, the other with von Boden’s 
luggage and fur pelisse- The platforms were 
now deserted save for sentries: all life at this 
dreary frontier station seemed to die with the 
passing of the mail train. 

I could not help noticing, after we had left 
the car and were strolling up and down the 
platform waiting for the special, that my com- 
panion kept casting furtive glances at my feet. 
I looked down at my boots: they wanted 
brushing, certainly, but otherwise I could see 
nothing wrong with them. They were brown, 
it is true, and I reflected that the German man 
about town has a way of regulating his tastes 
in footgear by the calendar, and that brown 
boots are seldom worn in Germany after Sep- 
tember 1st. 

Our special came in . . .an engine and 
tender, a brakesman’s van, a single carriage 
and a guard’s van. The stationmaster bid us 
a most ceremonious adieu, and the guard, cap 
in hand, helped me into the train. 

It was a Pullman car in which I found my- 
self, with comfortable arm-chairs and small 
tables. One of the orderlies was laying the 
table for luncheon, and here, presently, the 
young Count and I ate a meal, which, save for 
the inevitable ^^Kriegshrod/^ showed few signs 
of the stringency of the British blockade. But 


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT loi 

by this time I bad fully realized that, for some 
unknown reason, no pains were spared to do 
me honor, so probably the fare was something 
out of the common. 

My companion was a bright, amusing fellow 
and delightfully typical of his class. He had 
seen a year’s service with the cavalry on the 
Eastern front, had been seriously wounded and 
was now attached to the General Staff in 
Berlin in what I judged to be a decorative 
rather than a useful capacity, for, apart from 
what he had learnt in his own campaigning he 
seemed singularly ignorant of the development 
of the military situation. Particularly, his ig- 
norance of conditions on the Western front was 
supreme. He was full to the brim with the most 
extraordinary fables about the British. He 
solemnly assured me, for example — on the faith 
of a friend of his who had seen them — that Jap- 
anese were fighting with the English in France, 
dressed as Highlanders — his friend had heard 
these Asiatic Scotsmen talking Japanese, he 
declared. I thought of the Gaelic-speaking bat- 
talions of the Camerons and could hardly sup- 
press a smile. 

Young von Boden was superbly contempt- 
uous of the officers of the obscure and much 
reduced infantry battalion doing garrison duty 
at Goch, the frontier station we had just left, 


102 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


where — as he was careful to explain to me — he 
had spent four days of unrelieved boredom, 
waiting for me. 

‘^Of course, in war time we are a united 
army and all that,’’ he observed unsophisti- 
catedly, ‘‘but none of these fellows at Goch was 
a fit companion for a dashing cavalry officer. 
They were a dull lot. I wouldn’t go near the 
Casino. I met some of them at the hotel one 
evening. That was enough for me. Why, only 
one of them knew anything at all about Berlin, 
and that was the lame fellow. Now, there is 
one thing we learn in the cavalry. . . . ” 

But I had ceased to listen. In his irrespon- 
sible chatter the boy used a word that struck 
a harsh note which went jarring through my 
brain. He had mentioned “the lame fellow,” 
using a German word ‘ ‘ der Stelze. ” In a flash 
I saw before me again that scene in the squalid 
bedroom in the Vos in’t Tuintje — the candle 
guttering in the draught, the livid corpse on 
the floor and that sinister woman crying out : 
“Der Stelze has power, he has authority, he 
can make and unmake men I ’ ’ 

The mind has unaccountable lapses. The 
phrase had slipped out of my German vocabu- 
lary. I had not even recognized it until the boy 
had rapped it out in a context with which I was 
familiar and then it had come back. With it, it 


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT 103 

brought that tableau in the dimly lit room, but 
also another — a picture of a vast and massive 
man, swarthy and sinister, with a clubfoot, 
limping heavily after Karl, the waiter, on the 
platform at Rotterdam. 

That, then, was why the young lieutenant had 
glanced down at my feet at the station at Goch. 
The messenger he had come to meet, the bearer 
of the document, the man of power and author- 
ity, was clubfooted, and I was he ! 

But seeing I was free of any physical de- 
formity, to say nothing of the fact that I in no 
way resembled the clubfooted man I had seen 
on the platform at Rotterdam, why had the 
young lieutenant accepted me so readily? 
I hazarded the reason to be that he had orders 
to meet a person who had not been further des- 
ignated to him except that he would arrive by 
a certain train. The Major at the station would 
be responsible for establishing my hona fides. 
Once that officer had turned me over to the 
emissary, the latter’s sole responsibility con- 
sisted in conducting me to the unknown goal to 
which the special train was rapidly bearing us. 
Such are the marvels of discipline ! 

My companion was, indeed, the model of dis- 
cretion in everjdhing touching myself and my 
business. Curiosity about your neighbor’s af- 
fairs is a cardinal German failing, yet the Count 


104 the man with the CLUBFOOT 


manifested not the slightest desire to learn any- 
thing about me or my mission to Berlin. You 
may be sure that I, for my part, did nothing to 
enlighten him. It was not, indeed, in my power 
to do so. Yet the young man’s reserve was so 
marked that I was convinced he had his orders 
to avoid the topic. 

As the train rushed through Westphalia, 
through busy stations with glimpses of sidings 
full of trucks loaded to the brim, past to^vns 
whose very outlines were blurred by the mirk 
of smoke from a hundred factory chimneys, my 
thoughts were busy with that swarthy cripple. 
I had broken away from him with one portion 
of a highly prized document, yet he had made no 
attempt to have me arrested at the frontier. 
Clearly, then, he must still look upon me as an 
ally and must therefore be yet in ignorance of 
the identity of the dead man lying in my cham- 
ber at the Hotel Sixt. The friendly guide had 
told me that the party ‘‘combing out” the sta- 
tion at Eotterdam for me did not appear to 
know what I looked like. 

Was it possible, then, that Clubfoot did not 
Vnow Semlin by sight? 

The fact that Semlin had only recently crossed 
the Atlantic seemed to confirm this supposi- 
tion. 

Then the document. Semlin had half. Who 


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT 103 

had the other half? Surely Clubfoot. . . . 
Clubfoot who was to have called at the hotel 
that morning to receive what I had brought 
from England. Perhaps, after all, my random 
declaration to the hotel-keeper had not been so 
far wrong; Clubfoot wanted to take the whole 
document to Berlin and reap all the laurels at 
the cost of half the danger and labor. That 
would explain his present silence. He suspect- 
ed Semlin of treachery, not to the common 
cause, but to him ! 

It looked as if I might have a free run until 
Clubfoot could reach Berlin. That, unless he 
also took a special, could not be until the next 
evening at earliest. But, more redoubtable 
than a meeting with the man of power and au- 
thority, hung over me, an ever-present night- 
mare, the interview which I felt awaited me at 
the end of my present journey . . . the inter- 
view at which I must render an account of my 
mission. 

Evening was falling as we ran through the 
inhospitable region of sand and water and pine 
that engirdles Berlin. We glided at diminished 
speed through the trim suburbs, skirted the 
city, on whose tall buildings the electric sky- 
signs were already beginning to twinkle, crashed 
heavily over a vast network of metals at some 
great terminus, then tore off again into the 


10(5 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


gathering darkness. In a little, we slowed 
down again. We were running through wooded 
country. From the darkness ahead a lantern 
waved at us and the train stopped with a jerk 
at a little wayside station, a tiny box of an 
affair. A tall, solid figure, wearing a spiked 
helmet and grey military great-coat, stood in 
solitary grandeur in the center of the little 
platform, the wavering rays of a flickering gas 
lamp reflected in his brilliantly polished top- 
boots. 

‘‘Here we are at last!^^ said my companion. 

I stepped out to meet my fate. 


The young lieutenant was rigid at the salute 
before the figure on the platform. 

I heard the end of a sentence as I alighted 
. . the gentleman I was to meet, Excel- 
lency !'’ 

The other looked at me. He was a big man 
with a crimson face. He made no attempt at 
greeting, but said in a hoarse voice: “Have 
the goodness to come with me. The orderlies 
will attend to your things.’’ And, with clink- 
ing spurs, he strode out through some big kind 
of anteroom, swathed in wrappings, into a yard 
beyond, where a big limousine was throbbing 
gently. 


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT 


107 


He stood aside to let me get in, then mounted 
himself, followed, rather to my surprise, by 
the young Count, whose responsibility for my- 
self had ended, I imagined, on ‘‘delivering the 
goods. ’ ’ My surprise was of short duration, for 
once in the car the young Uhlan dropped all 
the formality he had displayed on the platform 
and addressed the elder officer as “papa.’’ 
This, then, was old General von Boden, of 
whom the Major had spoken, Aide-de-Camp to 
the Kaiser and formerly tutor to the Crown 
Prince. 

Father and son chatted in a desultory fashion 
across the car, and I took the opportunity of 
studying the old gentleman. His face was of 
the most prodigious purple hue, and so highly 
polished that it continually caught the reflection 
of the small electric lamp in the roof. Huge 
gold spectacles with glasses so thick that they 
distorted his eyes, straddled a great beak-lil^e 
nose. He had doffed his helmet and was mop- 
ping his brow, and I saw a high perfectly bald 
dome-like head, brilliantly polished and almost 
as red as his face. He was clean shaven and 
by no means young, for the flesh hung in bags 
al30ut his face. Long years of the habit of com- 
mand had left their mark in an imperiousness 
of manner which might easily yield to ruthless- 
ness I judged. 


io8 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


thought I should have had orders before 
I left the Villa/ ^ the General said to his son, 
‘‘then you could have gone straight there. I 
suppose he means to see him here : that is why 
he wanted him brought to the Villa. But he’s 
always the same: he never can make up his 
mind. ’ ’ And he grunted. 

“Perhaps there will be something waiting at 
home,” he added in his hoarse barrack-yard 
voice. 

We drove through a white gate into a little 
drive which brought us up in front of a long, 
low villa. Neither father nor son had opened 
their lips to me during the drive from the sta- 
tion and I had not ventured to put a question 
to either of them, but I knew we were in Pots- 
dam. The little station in the woods was Wild- 
Park, I suspected, the private station used by 
the Emperor on his frequent journeys and situ- 
ated in the grounds of the New Palace. All the 
officials of the Prussian Court have villas at 
Potsdam, though why I had been brought there 
in connection with an affair that must surely 
rather interest the Wilhelm- Strasse or the Po- 
lice Presidency was more than I could fathom. 

There was a frightful scene in the hall. With- 
out any warning the General turned on the 
orderly who had opened the door and screamed 
abuse at him. “Camel! Ox! Sheep’s-head!” 


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT lop 

he roared, his face and shining pate deepening 
their vermilion hue. ‘^Do I give orders that 
they shall be forgotten? What do you mean? 
You ass. . . He put his white-gloved 
hands on the man’s shoulders and shook him 
until the fellow’s teeth must have rattled in his 
head. The orderly, white to the lips, hung limp 
in the old man’s grasp, muttering apologies: 
‘‘Ach! Excellenz! Excellenz will excuse 
me. ...” 

It was a revolting spectacle, but it did not 
make the least impression on the son, who, put- 
ting down his cap and great-coat and unhook- 
ing his sword, led me into a kind of study. 
‘‘These orderlies are such thickheads!” he said. 

“Rudi! Rudi!” a hoarse, strident voice 
screamed from the hall. The lieutenant ran 
out. 

“You’ve got to take the fellow to Berlin to- 
night. The message was here all the time — that 
numskull Heinrich forgot it. And we’ve got 
to keep the fellow here till then! An outrage, 
having the house used as a barrack for a ras- 
cally detective!” Thus much I heard, as the 
door had been left open. Then it closed and I 
heard no more. 

As I had heard this much, there was a certain 
irony in the invitation to dinner subsequently 
conveyed to me by the young Uhlan. There 


no THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


was nothing for it but to accept. I knew I was 
caught deep in the meshes of Prussian disci- 
pline, every one had his orders and blindly car- 
ried them out, from the garrulous Major on the 
frontier to this preposterous ExzellenZy this Im- 
perial aide-de-camp of Potsdam. I was already 
a tiny cog in a great machine. I should have 
to revolve or be crushed. 

His Excellency left me in no doubt on this 
point. When I was ushered into his study, after 
a much-needed wash and a shave, he received 
me standing and said point-blank: ‘‘Your ord- 
ers are to stay here until ten o’clock to-night, 
when you will be taken to Berlin by Lieutenant 
Count von Boden. I don’t know you, I don’t 
know your business, but I have received certain 
orders concerning you which I intend to carry 
out. For that reason you will dine with us here. 
After you have seen the person to whom you 
are to be taken to-night. Lieutenant Count von 
Boden will accompany you to the railway sta- 
tion at Spandau, where a special train will be 
in readiness in which he will conduct you back 
to the frontier. I wish you clearly to under- 
stand that the Lieutenant is responsible for see- 
ing these orders carried out and will use all 
means to that end. Have I made myself 
clear?” 

The old man’s manner was indescribably 


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT 


III 


threatening. ^‘This is the machine we are out 
to smash, ’ ^ I had said to myself when I saw him 
savaging his servant in the hall and I repeated 
the phrase to myself now. But to the General 
I said : ‘ ‘ Perfectly, Your Excellency ! ’ ’ 

‘^Then let us go to dinner, said the General, 
It was a nightmare meal. A faded and 
shrunken female, to whom I was not introduced 
— some kind of relative who kept house for the 
General, I supposed — ^was the only other person 
present. She never opened her lips save, with 
eyes glazed with terror, to give some whispered 
instruction to the orderly anent the General’s 
food or wine. We dined in a depressing room 
with dark brown wall-paper decorated with 
dusty stags’ antlers, an enormous green-tiled 
stove dominating everything. The General and 
his son ate solidly through the courses while the 
lady pecked furtively at her plate. As for my- 
self I could not eat for sheer fright. Every 
nerve in my body was vibrating at the thought 
of the evening before me. If I could not avoid 
the interview, I was resolutely determined to 
give Master von Boden the slip rather than re- 
turn to the frontier empty-handed. I had not 
braved all these perils to be packed ofp home 
without, at least, making an attempt to find 
Francis. Besides, I meant if I could to get the 
other half of that document. 


II2 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

There was some quite excellent Ehine wine, 
and I drank plenty of it. So did the General, 
with the result that, when the veins starting 
purple from his temples proclaimed that he had 
eaten to repletion, his temper seemed to have 
improved. He unbent sufficiently to present me 
with quite the worst cigar I have ever smoked. 

I smoked it in silence whilst father and son 
talked shop. The female had faded away. Both 
men, I found to my surprise, were furious and 
bitter opponents of Hindenburg, as I have since 
learned most of the old school of the Prussian 
Army are. They spoke little of England : their 
thoughts seemed to be centered on Eussia as 
the arch-enemy. They pinned their faith on 
Falkenhayn and Mackensen. They had no 
words strong enough in their denunciation of 
Hindenburg, whom they always referred to as 
the Drunkard’’ . . . ‘‘der Saufer.” Nor were 
they sparing of criticism of what they called 
the Kaiser’s ‘‘weakness” in letting him rise to 
power. 

The humming of a car outside broke up our 
gathering. Eemembering that I was but a hum- 
ble servant before this great military luminary, 
I thanked the General with due servility for 
his hospitality. Then the Count and I went out 
to the car and presently drove forth into the 
night. 


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT 113 

We entered Berlin from the west, as it 
seemed to me, but then struck off in a southerly 
direction and were soon in the commercial quar- 
ter of the city, all but deserted at that hour, 
save for the trams. Then I caught a glimpse of 
lamps reflected in water, and the next moment 
the car had stopped on a bridge over a canal or 
river. My companion sprang out and hurried 
me to a small gate in an iron railing enclosing 
a vast edifice looming black in the night, while 
the car moved off into the darkness. 

The gate was open. Half a dozen yards from 
it was a small, slender tower with a pointed roof 
jutting out from the comer of the building. In 
the tower was a door which yielded easily to my 
companion’s vigorous push as a clock some- 
where within the building beat a double stroke 
— ^half-past ten. 

The door led into a little vestibule brilliantly 
lit with electric light. There a man was waitings 
a fine, upstanding bearded fellow in a kind of 
green hunting costume. 

‘‘So, Payer I” said the young Uhlan. “Here 
is the gentleman. I shall be at the west en- 
trance afterwards. You will bring him down 
yourself to the car.” 

“Jawohl, Herr Graf!” answered the man in 
green, and the lieutenant vanished through the 
door into the night. 


II4 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

A terrifying, an incredible suspicion that had 
overwhelmed me directly I stepped out of the 
car now came surging through my brain. That 
vast, black edifice, that slender tower at the cor- 
ner — did I not know them? 

Mechanically, I followed the man in green. 
My suspicions deepened with every step. In a 
little, they became certainty. Up a shallow and 
winding stair, along a long and broad corridor, 
hung with rich tapestries, the polished parquet 
glistening faintly in the dim light, through 
splendid suites of gilded apartments with old 
pictures and splendid furniture . . . here a 
lackey with powdered hair yawning on a land- 
ing, there a sentry in field-grey immobile before 
a door ... I was in the Berlin Schloss. 

The Castle seemed to sleep. A hushed silence 
lay over all. Everywhere lights were dim, stair- 
cases wound down into emptiness, corridors 
stretched away into dusky solitude. Now and 
then an attendant in evening dress tiptoed past 
us or an officer vanished round a corner, noise- 
lessly save for a faint clink of spurs. 

Thus we traversed, as it seemed to me, miles 
of silence and of twilight, and all the time my 
blood hammered at my temples and my throat 
grew dry as I thought of the ordeal that stood 
before me. To whom was I thus bidden, sec- 
retly, in the night? 


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT 115 

We were in a broad and pleasant passage 
now, panelled in cheerful light brown oak with 
red hangings. After the desolation of the 
State apartments, this comfortable corridor had 
at least the appearance of leading to the habita- 
tion of man. A giant trooper in field-gray with 
a curious silver gorget suspended round his 
neck by a chain paced up and down the passage, 
his jackboots making no sound upon the soft, 
thick carpet with which the fioor was covered. 

The man in green stopped at the door. 
Holding up a warning hand to me, he bent his 
head and listened. There was a moment of ab- 
solute silence. Not a sound was to be heard 
in the whole Castle. Then the man in green 
knocked and was admitted, leaving me outside. 

A moment later, the door swung open again. 
A tall, elegant man with grey hair and that in- 
definite air of good breeding that you find in 
every man who has spent a life at court, came 
out hurriedly. He looked pale and harassed. 

On seeing me, he stopped short. 

‘^Dr. Grundt? Where is Dr. Grundtr’ he 
asked and his eyes dropped to my feet. He 
started and raised them to my face. 

The trooper had drifted out of earshot. I 
could see him, immobile as a statue, standing at 
the end of the corridor. Except for him and us, 
the passage was deserted. 


Ii6 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


Again the elderly man spoke and his voice 
betrayed his anxiety. 

‘‘Who are you?’' he asked almost in a whis- 
per. ‘ ‘ What have you done with Grundt ? Why 
has he not come?” 

Boldly I took the plunge. 

“I am Semlin,” I said. 

“Semlin,” echoed the other, “ — ah yes! the 
Embassy in Washington wrote about you — ^but 
Grundt was to have come. . . 

“Listen,” I said, “Grundt could not come. 
We had to separate and he sent me on 
ahead. . . .” 

“But . . . but . . .” — the man was stam- 
mering now in his anxiety — . . you suc- 

ceeded?” 

I nodded. 

He heaved a sign of relief. 

“It will be awkward, very awkward, this 
change in the arrangements,” he said. “You 
will have to explain everything to him, every- 
thing. Wait there an instant.” 

He darted back into the room. 

Once more I stood and waited in that silent 
place, so restful and so still that one felt one-, 
self in a world far removed from the angry 
strife of nations. And I wondered if my inter- 
view — the meeting I had so much dreaded — 
was at an end. 


I HEAR OF CLUBFOOT 117 

^‘Pst, Pstl^’ The elderly man stood at the 
open door. 

He led me through a room, a cosy place, smel- 
ling pleasantly of leather furniture, to a door. 
He opened it, revealing across a narrow thres- 
hold another door. On this he knocked. 

‘‘Herein!^’ cried a voice — a harsh, metallic 
voice. 

My companion turned the handle and, open- 
ing the door, thrust me into the room. The door 
closed behind me. 

I found myself facing the Emperor. 


CHAPTER IX 


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE WHO LEADS ME 
TO A DELIGHTFUL SURPRISE 

H e stood in the center of the room, facing 
the door, his legs, straddled apart, 
planted firmly on the ground, one hand 
behind his back, the other, withered and useless 
like the rest of the arm, thrust into the side 
pocket of his tunic. He wore a perfectly plain 
undress uniform of field-gray, and the unusual 
simplicity of his dress, coupled with the fact 
that he was bare-headed, rendered him so un- 
like his conventional portraits in the full pan- 
oply of war that I doubt if I should have recog- 
nized him — paradoxical as it may seem — ^but for 
the havoc depicted in every lineament of those 
once so familiar features. 

Only one man in the world to-day could look 
like that. Only one man in the world to-day 
could show, by the ravage in his face, the 
appalling weight of responsibility slowly crush- 

ii8 


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE up 

ing one of the most vigorous and resilient per- 
sonalities in Europe. His figure, erstwhile 
erect and well-knit, seemed to have shrunk, and 
his withered arm, unnaturally looped away into 
his pocket, assumed a prominence that lent 
something sinister to that forbidding gray and 
harassed face. 

His head was sunk forward on his breast. 
His face, always intensely sallow, almost Italian 
in its olive tint, was livid. All its alertness was 
gone; the features seemed to have collapsed, 
and the flesh hung flabbily, bulging in deep 
pouches under the eyes and in loose folds at 
the corners of the mouth. His head was grizzled 
an iron-gray but the hair at the temples was 
white as driven snow. Only his eyes were un- 
changed. They were the same gray, steely eyes, 
restless, shifting, unreliable, mirrors of the 
man ’s impulsive, wayward and fickle mind. 

He lowered at me. His brow was furrowed 
and his eyes flashed malice. In the brief instant 
in which I gazed at him I thought of a phrase a 
friend had used after seeing the Kaiser in one 
of his angry moods — ‘‘His icy, black look.’^ 

I was so taken aback at finding myself in the 
Emperor’s presence that I forgot my part and 
remained staring in stupefaction at the appari- 
tion. The other was seemingly too busy with 
his thoughts to notice my forgetfulness, for he 


J20 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


spoke at once, imperiously, in the harsh staccato 
of a command. 

^‘What is this I hearT’ he said. ‘‘Why has 
not Grundt come ? What are yon doing here ? ^ ’ 
By this time I had elaborated the fable I had 
begun to tell in the corridor without. I had it 
ready now : it was thin, but it must suffice. 

“If your Majesty will allow me, I will ex- 
plain, I said. The Emperor was rocking him- 
self to and fro, in nervous irritability, on his 
feet. His eyes were never steady for an in- 
stant : now they searched my face, now they fell 
to the floor, now they scanned the ceiling. 

“Dr. Grundt and I succeeded in our quest, 
dangerous though it was. As your Majesty is 
aware, the. . . the . . . the object had been 
divided. . . 

“Yes, yes, I know! Go on!^^ the other said, 
pausing for a moment in his rocking. 

“I was to have left England first with my 
portion. I could not get away. Everyone is 
searched for letters and papers at Tilbury. I 
devised a scheme and we tested it, but it failed. ’ ^ 

‘ ‘ How ? It failed ? ^ ’ the other cried. 

“With no detriment to the success of our 
mission. Your Majesty.’^ 

‘ ‘ Explain ! What was your stratagem f ^ ^ 

“I cut a piece of the lining from a hand-bag 
and in this I wrapped a perfectly harmless let- 


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 121 

ter addressed to an English shipping agent in 
Rotterdam. I then pasted the fragment of the 
lining back in its place in the bottom of the bag. 
Grundt gave the bag to one of our number as an 
experiment to see if it would elude the vigilance 
of the English police.’’ 

A light of interest was growing in the Em- 
peror’s manner, banishing his ill-temper. Any- 
thing novel always appealed to him. 

‘‘Well?” he said. 

“The ruse was detected, the letter was found 
and our man was fined twenty pounds at the 
police court. It was then that Dr. Grundt de- 
cided to send me. . . . ” 

“You’ve got it with you?” the other ex- 
claimed eagerly. 

“No, Your Majesty,” I said. “I had no 
means of bringing it away. Dr. Grundt, on the 
other hand . . . ” And I doubled up my leg 
and touched my foot. 

The Emperor stared at me and the furrow 
reappeared between his eyes. Then a smile 
broke out on his face, a warm, attractive smile, 
like sunshine after rain, and he burst into a 
regular guffaw. I knew His Majesty’s weak- 
ness for jokes at the expense of the physical 
deformities of others, but I had scarcely dared 
to hope that my subtle reference to Grundt ’s 
clubfoot as a hiding place for compromising 


122 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

papers would have had such a success. For the 
Kaiser fairly revelled in the idea and laughed 
loud and long, his sides fairly shaking. 

‘‘Ach, der Stelze! Excellent! Excellent!’^ 
he cried. ‘‘Plessen, come and hear how weVe 
diddled the Englander again 

We were in a long room, lofty, with a great 
window at the far end, where the room seemed 
to run to the right and left in the shape of a 
T. From the big writing-desk with its litter of 
photographs in heavy silver frames, the little 
bronze busts of the Empress, the water-color 
sea-scapes and other little touches, I judged 
this to be the Emperor’s study. 

At the monarch’s call, a white-haired officer 
emerged from the further end of the room, that 
part which was hidden from my view. 

The Kaiser put his hand on his shoulder. 

‘‘A great joke, Plessen!” he said, chuckling. 
Then, to me : 

‘‘Tell it again!” 

I had warmed to my work now. I gave as 
drily humorous an account as I could of Dr. 
Grundt, fat and massive and podgy, hobbling 
on board the steamer at Tilbury, under the 
noses of the British police, with the document 
stowed away in his boot. 

The Kaiser punctuated my story with gusty 
guffaws, and emphasized the fun of the denoue- 


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 123 

ment by poking the General in the ribs. 

Plessen laughed very heartily, as indeed he 
was expected to. Then he said suavely : 

‘‘But has the stratagem succeeded, Your 
Majesty?’’ 

The monarch knit his brow and looked at me. 

“Well, young man, did it work?” 

. . Because,” Plessen went on, so, 
Grundt must be in Holland. In that case, why 
is he not here?” 

My heart sank within me. Above all things, 
I knew I must keep my countenance. The least 
sign of embarrassment and I was lost. Yet I 
felt the blood fleeing from my face and I was 
glad I stood in the shadow. 

A knock came to the door. The elderly 
chamberlain who had met me outside appeared. 

“Your Majesty will excuse me . . . Gen- 
eral Baron von Fischer is there to report. . . . ” 

“Presently, presently,” was the answer in an 
irritable tone. “I am engaged just now. . . .” 

The old courtier paused irresolutely for a mo- 
ment. 

“Well, what is it; what is it?” 

“Despatches from General Headquarters, 
Your Majesty! The General asked me to say 
the matter was urgent ! ’ ’ 

The Kaiser wakened in an instant. 

‘ ‘ Bring him in ! ” Then, to Plessen, he added 


124 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


in a voice from which all mirth had vanished, 
in accents of gloom : 

“At this hour, Plessen? If things have again 
gone wrong on the Somme 

An officer came in quickly, rigid with a frozen 
face, helmet on head, portfolio under his arm. 
The Kaiser walked the length of the room to 
his desk and sat down. Plessen and the other 
followed him. I remained where I was. They 
seemed to have forgotten all about me. 

A murmur rose from the desk. The officer 
was delivering his report. Then the Kaiser 
seemed to question him, for I heard his hard, 
metallic voice : 

“ Contalmaison . . . Tr ones Wood . . . heavy 
losses . . . forced back . . . terrific artillery 
fire . . .’’ were words that reached me. The 
Kaiser’s voice rose on a high note of irritabil- 
ity. Suddenly he dashed the papers on the desk 
from him and exclaimed : 

“It is outrageous! I’ll break him! Not 
another man shall he have if I must go myself 
and teach his men their duty!” 

Plessen hurriedly left the desk and came to 
me. His old face was white and his hands were 
shaking. 

“Get out of here!” he said to me in a fierce 
undertone. “Wait outside and I will see you 
later!” Still, from the desk, resounded that 


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 1^5 

harsh, strident voice, running on in an ascend- 
ing scale, pouring forth a foaming torrent of 
menace. 

I had often heard of the sudden paroxysms 
of fury from which the Kaiser was said to suf- 
fer of recent years, but never in my wildest day- 
dreams did I ever imagine I should assist at 
one. 

Gladly enough did I exchange the highly 
charged electrical atmosphere of the Imperial 
study for the repose of the quiet corridor. Its 
perfect tranquillity was as balm to my quivering 
nerves. Of the man in green nothing was to be 
seen. Only the trooper continued his silent 
vigil. 

Again I acted on impulse. I was wearing my 
grass-green raincoat, my hat I carried in my 
hand. I might therefore easily pass for one 
just leaving the Castle. Without hesitation, I 
turned to the left, the way I had come, and 
plunged once more into the labyrinth of gal- 
leries and corridors and landings by which the 
man in green had led me. I very soon lost my- 
self, so I decided to descend the next staircase 
I should come to. I followed this plan and went 
down a broad flight of stairs, at the foot of 
which I found a night porter, clad in a vast 
overcoat bedizened with eagles and seated on a 
stool, reading a newspaper. 


is6 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


He stopped me and asked me my business. I 
told him I was coming from the Emperor’s pri- 
vate apartments, whereupon he demanded my 
pass. I showed him my badge which entirely 
satisfied him, though he muttered something 
about ‘^new faces” and not having seen me be- 
fore. I asked him for the way out. He said 
that at the end of the gallery I should come to 
the west entrance. I felt I had had a narrow 
squeak of running into my mentor outside. I 
told the man I wanted the other entrance. . . . 
I had my car there. 

‘‘You mean the south entrance?” he asked, 
and proceeded to give me directions which 
brought me, without further difficulty, out upon 
the open space in front of the great equestrian 
statue of the Emperor William I. 

It was a clear, starry night and I heaved a 
sigh of relief as I saw the Schloss-Platz glitter- 
ing in the cold light of the arc lamps. So press- 
ing had been the danger threatening me that the 
atmosphere of the Castle seemed stifling in com- 
parison with the keen night air. A new confi- 
dence filled my veins as I strode along, though 
the perils to which I was advancing were not a 
whit less than those I had just escaped. For I 
had burnt my boats. My disappearance from 
the Castle must surely arouse suspicion and it 
was only a matter of hours for the hue and cry 


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 12J 

to be raised after me. At best it might be de- 
layed until Clubfoot presented himself at the 
Castle. 

I could not remain in Berlin, that was clear. 
My American passport was not in order, and if 
I were to fall back upon my silver badge, I 
should instantly come into contact with the po- 
lice with all kinds of unwelcome consequences. 
No, I must get out of Berlin at all costs. Well 
away from the capital, I might possibly utilize 
my silver badge or by its help procure identity 
papers that would give me a status of some 
kind. 

But Francis? Baffled as I was by that ob- 
scure jingle of German, something seemed to 
tell me that it was a message from my brother. 
It was dated from Berlin, and I felt that the so- 
lution of the riddle, if riddle it were, must be 
found here. 

I had reached Unter den Linden. I entered 
a cafe and ordered a glass of beer. The place 
was a blaze of light and dense with a blue cloud 
of tobacco smoke. A noisy band was crashing 
out popular tunes and there was a loud buzz of 
conversation rising from every table. It was 
all very cheerful and the noise and the bustle 
did me good after the strain of the night. 

I drew from my pocket the slip of paper I 
had had from Dicky and fell to scanning it 


128 [THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

again. I had not been twelve hours in Germany, 
but already I was conscious that, for anyone 
acting a part, let anything go wrong with his 
identity papers and he could never leave the 
country. If he were lucky, he might lie doggo ; 
but there was no other course. 

Supposing, then, that this had happened to 
Francis (as, indeed, Eed Tabs had hinted to me 
was the case) what course would he adopt? He 
would try and smuggle out a message announc- 
ing his plight. Yes, I think that is what I my- 
self would do in similar circumstances. 

Well, I would accept this as a message from 
Francis. Now to study it once more. 

0 Eichenholz! 0 Eichenholz! 

Wie leer sind deine Blatter. 

Wie Achiles in dem Zelte. 

Wo zweie sich zanhen 

Erjreut sich der Dritte. 

The message fell into three parts, each con- 
sisting of a phrase. The first phrase might cer- 
tainly be a warning that Francis had failed in 
his mission. 

^^0 Okewood! how empty are thy leaves!^* 

What, then, of the other two phrases? 

^ They were short and simple. Whatever mes- 
sage they conveyed, it could not be a lengthy 
one. Nor was it likely that they contained a 
report of Francis’ mission to Germany, what- 


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE I2q 

ever it had been. Indeed, it was not conceivable 
that my brother would send any such report to 
a Dutchman like van Urutius, a friendly enough 
fellow, yet a mere acquaintance and an alien at 
that. 

The message carried in those two phrases 
must be, I felt sure, a personal one, relating to 
my brother’s welfare. What would he desire 
to say ? That he was arrested, that he was going 
to be shot? Possibly, but more probably his 
idea in sending out word was to explain his 
silence and also to obtain assistance. 

My eye recurred continually to the final 
phrase: ‘‘When two people fall out, the third 
party rejoices.” 

Might not these numerals refer to the number 
of a street? Might not in these two phrases be 
hidden an address at which one might find Fran- 
cis, or at the worst, hear news of him? 

I sent for the Berlin Directory. I turned up 
the streets section and eagerly ran my eye down 
the columns of the “A’s.” I did not find what 
I was looking for, and that was an “Achilles- 
Strasse,” either with two “Ps” or with one. 

Then I tried “Eichenholz.” There was an 
“Eichenbaum-Allee” in the Berlin suburb called 
West-End, but that was all. I tried for a 
“Blatter” or a “Blatt-Strasse” with an equally 
negative result. 


J 30 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

It was discouraging work, but I went back to 
the paper again. The only other word likely to 
serve as a street remaining in the puzzle was 
‘‘Zelt.’^ 

^^Wie Achiles in dem ZelteJ* 

Wearily I opened the directory at the ‘‘Z’s.’’ 

There, staring me in the face, I found the 
street called den Zelten/* 

I had struck the trail at last. 

In den Zelten, I discovered, on referring to 
the directory again, derived its name ‘‘In the 
Tents,’’ from the fact that in earlier days a 
number of open-air beer-gardens and booths 
had occupied the site which faces the northern 
side of the Tiergarten. It was not a long street. 
The directory showed but fifty-six houses, 
several of which, I noticed, were still beer- 
gardens. It appeared to be a fashionable 
thoroughfare, for most of the occupants were 
titled people. No. 3, I was interested to see, 
was still noted as the Berlin office of The Times. 

The last phrase in the message decidedly gave 
the number. Two must refer to the number of 
the house: third to the number of the floor, 
since practically all dwelling-houses in Berlin 
are divided off into flats. 

As for the “Achiles,” I gave it up. 

I looked at my watch. It was twenty past 
eleven: too late to begin my search that night. 


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 131 

Then I suddenly realized how utterly exhausted 
I was. I had been two nights out of bed with- 
out sleep, for I had sat up on deck crossing over 
to Holland, and the succession of adventures 
that had befallen me since I left London had 
driven all thought of weariness from my mind. 
But now came the reaction and I felt myself 
yearning for a hot bath and for a nice comfort- 
able bed. To go to an hotel at that hour of 
night, without luggage and with an American 
passport not in order, would be to court dis- 
aster. It looked as though I should have to hang 
about the cafes and night restaurants until mor- 
ning, investigate the clue of the street called In 
den Zelten, and then get away from Berlin as 
fast as ever I could. 

But my head was nodding with drowsiness. I 
must pull myself together. I decided I would 
have some black coffee, and I raised my eyes to 
find the waiter. They fell upon the pale face 
and elegant figure of the one-armed officer I had 
met at the Casino at Goch . . . the young lieu- 
tenant they had called Schmalz. 

He had just entered the cafe and was standing 
at the door, looking about him. I felt a sudden 
pang of uneasiness at the sight of him, for I 
remembered his cross-examination of me at 
Goch. But I could not escape without paying 
my bill ; besides, he blocked the way. 


132 THE MAK WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


He settled my doubts and fears by walking 
straight over to my table. 

‘‘Good evening, Herr Doktor,” he said in 
German, with his pleasant smile. “This indeed 
is an unexpected pleasure ! So you are seeing 
how we poor Germans are amusing ourselves in 
war-time. You must admit that we do not take 
our pleasures sadly. You permit me?” 

Without waiting for my reply, he sat down 
at my table and ordered a glass of beer. 

“I wish you had appeared sooner,” I ex- 
claimed in as friendly a tone as I could muster, 
“for I am just going. I have had a long and 
tiring journey and am anxious to go to an ho- 
tel.” 

Directly I had spoken I realized my blunder. 

“You have not got an hotel yet?” said 
Schmalz. “Why, how curious! Nor have I! 
As you are a stranger in Berlin, you must allow 
me to appoint myself your guide. Let us go to 
an hotel together, shall we?” 

I wanted to demur, difficult as it was to find 
any acceptable excuse, but his manner was so 
friendly, his offer seemed so sincere, that I felt 
my resolution wavering. He had a winning per- 
sonality, this frank, handsome boy. And I was 
so dog-tired I 

He perceived my reluctance but also my in- 
decision. 


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 133 

‘‘We’ll go to any hotel yon like,” he said 
brightly. “But you Americans are spoilt in the 
matter of luxurious hotels, I know. Still, I tell 
you we have not much to learn in that line in 
Berlin. Suppose we go to the Esplanade. It’s 
a fine hotel . . . the Hamburg American line 
run it, you know. I am very well known there, 
quite the Hauskind . . . my uncle was a cap- 
tain of one of their liners. They will make us 
very comfortable: they always give me a little 
suite, bedroom, sitting-room and bath, very rea- 
sonably : I’ll make them do the same for you.” 

If I had been less weary — I have often 
thought since — I would have got up and fled 
from the cafe rather than have countenanced 
any such mad proposal. But I was drunk with 
sleep heaviness and I snatched at this chance 
of getting a good night’s rest, for I felt that, 
under the aegis of this young officer, I could 
count on any passport difficulties at the hotel 
being postponed until morning. By that time, 
I meant to be out of the hotel and away on my 
investigations. 

So I accepted Schmalz’s suggestion. 

“By the way,” I said, “I have no luggage. 
My bag got mislaid somehow at the station and 
I don’t really feel up to going after it to-night.” 

“I will fix you up,” the other replied prompt- 
ly, “and with pyjamas in the American fashion. 


134 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 


By the by/’ he added, lowering his voice, 
thought it better to speak German. English is 
not heard gladly in Berlin just now. ’ ’ 

‘‘I quite understand,” I said. Then, to 
change the subject, which I did not like par- 
ticularly, I added : 

^ ‘ Surely, you have been very quick in coming 
down from the frontier. Did you come by 
train?” 

^‘Oh, no!” he answered. ‘‘I found that the 
car in which you drove to the station ... it 
belonged to the gentleman who came to meet 
you, you know . . . was being sent back to 
Berlin by road, so I got the driver to give me a 
lift.” 

He said this quite airily, with his usual tone 
of candor. But for a moment I regretted my 
decision to go to the Esplanade with him. What 
if he knew more than he seemed to know? 

I dismissed the suspicion from my mind. 

‘^Bah!” I said to myself, ‘‘you are getting 
jumpy. Besides, it is too late to turn back 
now!” 

We had a friendly wrangle as to who should 
pay for the drinks, and it ended in my paying. 
Then, after a long wait, we managed to get a 
cab, an antique-looking “growler” driven by an 
octogenarian in a coat of many capes, and drove 
to the Esplanade. 


I ENCOUNTER AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE /J5 

It was a regular palace of a place, with a 
splendid vestibule with walls and pavement of 
diiferent-hued marbles, with palm trees over- 
shadowing a little fountain tinkling in a jade 
basin, with servants in gaudy liveries. The re- 
ception clerk overwhelmed me with the cordial- 
ity of his welcome to my companion and “the 
American gentleman, ’ ^ and after a certain 
amount of coquettish protestations about the 
difficulty of providing accommodation, allotted 
us a double suite on the entresol, consisting of 
two bedrooms with a common sitting-room and 
bathroom. 

In his immaculate evening dress, he was a 
Beau Brummell among hotel clerks, that man. 
The luggage of the American gentleman should 
be fetched in the morning. The gentleman’s 
papers? There was no hurry: the Herr 
Leutnant would explain to his friend the forms 
that had to be filled in : they could be given to 
the waiter in the morning. Would the gentle- 
men take anything before retiring? A whisky- 
soda — ah! whisky was getting scarce. No? 
Nothing? He had the honor to wish the gentle- 
men pleasant repose. 

We went to the lift in procession. Beau 
Brummell in front, then a waiter, then ourselves 
and the gold-braided hall porter bringing up the 
rear. One or two people were sitting in the 


iSd THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


lounge, attended by a platoon of waiters. The 
whole place gave an impression of wealth and 
luxury altogether out of keeping with British 
ideas of the stringency of life in Germany under 
the British blockade. I could not help reflecting 
to myself mournfully that Germany did not 
seem to feel the pinch very much. 

At the lift the procession bowed itself away 
and we went up in charge of the liftman, a 
gorgeous individual who looked like one of the 
Pope^s Swiss Guards. We reached the entresol 
in an instant. The Lieutenant led the way 
along the dimly lighted corridor. 

‘‘Here is the sitting-room,’’ he said, opening 
a door. “This is my room, this the bathroom, 
and this,” he flung open the fourth door, “is 
your room!” 

He stood aside to let me pass. The lights in 
the room were full on. In an armchair a big 
man in an overcoat was sitting. 

He had a heavy square face and a clubfoot. 


CHAPTER X 


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 

1 WALKED boldly into the room. All sense 
of fear had vanished in a wave of anger 
that swept over me, anger with myself for 
letting myself be trapped, anger with my com- 
panion for his treachery. 

Schmalz stood at my elbow with a smile full 
of malice on his face. 

‘‘There now!’’ he cried, “you see, you are 
among friends! Am I not thoughtful to have 
prepared this little surprise for you? See, I 
have brought you to the one man you have 
crossed so many hundreds of miles of ocean to 
see ! Herr Doktor ! this is Dr. Semlin. Dr. Sem- 
lin: Dr. Grundt.” 

The other had by now heaved his unwieldy 
frame from the chair. 

“Dr. Semlin?” he said, in a perfectly emo- 
tionless voice, une voix blanche, as the French 
say, “this is an unexpected pleasure. I never 


138 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


thought we should meet in Berlin. I had be^- 
lieved our rendezvous to have been fixed for 
Rotterdam. Still, better late than never ! ’ ’ And 
he extended to me a white, fat hand. 

‘‘Our friend, the Herr Leutnant,” I answered 
carelessly, “omitted to inform me that he was 
acquainted with you, as, indeed, he failed to 
warn me that I should have the pleasure of see- 
ing you here to-night.’^ 

“We owe that pleasure,’’ Clubfoot replied 
with a smile that displayed a glitter of gold in 
his teeth, “to a purely fortuitous encounter at 
the Casino at Goch, as, indeed, it would appear, 
I am similarly indebted to chance for the un- 
looked-for boon of making your personal ac- 
quaintance here this evening. ’ ’ 

He bowed to Schmalz as he said this. 

“But come,” he went on, “if I may make 
bold to offer you the hospitality of your own 
room, sit down and try a glass of this excellent 
Brauneberger. Rhine wine must be scarce 
where you come from. We have much to tell 
one another, you and I. ’ ’ 

Again he bared his golden teeth in a smile. 

‘ ‘ By all means, ’ ’ I said. ‘ ‘ But I fear we keep 
our young friend from his bed. Doubtless, you 
have no secrets from him, but you will agree, 
Herr Doktor, that our conversation should best 
be tete-a-trfe.'' 


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT jjp 

‘‘Schmalz, dear friend,’’ Clubfoot exclaimed 
with a sigh of regret, ‘‘much as I should like 
... I am indeed truly sorry that we should be 
deprived of your company, but I cannot contest 
the profound accuracy of our friend’s remark. 
If you could go to the sitting-room for a few 
minutes. . . .” 

The young lieutenant flushed angrily. 

“If you prefer my room to my company . . . 
by all means,” he retorted gruffly, “but I think, 
in the circumstances, that I shall go to bed.” 

And he turned on his heel and walked out of 
the room, shutting the door with rather more 
force than was necessary, I thought. 

Clubfoot sighed. 

“Ah! youth! youth!” he cried, “the same 
impetuous youth that is at this very moment 
hacking out for Germany a world empire amidst 
the nations in arms. A wonderful race, a race 
of giants, our German youth, Herr Doktor . . . 
the mainspring of our great German machine — 
as they find who resist it. A glass of wine !” 

The man’s speech and manner boded ill for 
me, I felt. I would have infinitely preferred 
violent language and open threats to the subtle 
menace that lay concealed beneath all this 
suavity. 

“You smoke?” queried Clubfoot. “No!” — 
he held up his hand to stop me as I was reaching 


140 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


for my cigarette case, ^‘you shall have a cigar — 
not one of our poor German Hamburgers, but a 
fine Havana cigar given me by a member of the 
English Privy Council. You stare! Aha! I 
repeat, by a member of the English Privy Coun- 
cil, to me, the Boche, the barbarian, the Hun! 
No hole-and-corner work for the old doctor. 
JDer St else may be lame. Clubfoot may he past 
his work, but when he travels en mission, he 
travels en prince, the man of wealth and sub- 
stance. There is none too high to do him honor, 
to listen to his views on poor, misguided Ger- 
many, the land of thinkers sold into bondage to 
the militarists ! Bah ! the fools ! ’ ’ 

He snarled venomously. This man was be- 
ginning to interest me. His rapid change of 
moods was fascinating, now the kindly philos- 
opher, now the Teuton braggart, now the Hun 
incorporate. As he limped across the room to 
fetch his cigar-case from the mantelpiece, I 
studied him. 

He was a vast man, not so much by reason of 
his height, which was below the medium, but 
his bulk, which was enormous. The span of his 
shoulders was immense, and, though a heavy 
paunch and a white flabbiness of face spoke of a 
gross, sedentary life, he was obviously a man of 
quite unusual strength. His arms particularly 
were out of all proportion to his stature, being 


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 141 

so long that his hands hung down on either side 
of him when he stood erect, like the paws of 
some giant ape. Altogether, there was some- 
thing decidedly simian about his appearance 
. . . his squat nose with hairy, open nostrils, 
and the general hirsuteness of the man, his 
bushy eye-brows, the tufts of black hair on his 
cheek bones and on the backs of his big, spade- 
like hands. And there was that in his eyes, dark 
and courageous beneath the shaggy brows, that 
hinted at accesses of ape-like fury, uncontroll- 
able and ferocious. 

He gave me his cigar which, as he had said, 
was a good one, and, after a preliminary sip of 
his wine, began to speak. 

am a plain man, Herr Doktor,’^ he said, 
‘‘and I like plain speaking. That is why I am 
going to speak quite plainly to you. When it 
became apparent that the person whom it is not 
necessary to name further greatly desired a cer- 
tain letter to be recovered, I naturally expected 
that I, who am a past master in affairs of this 
order, notably, on behalf of the person con- 
cerned, would have been entrusted with the mis- 
sion. It was I who discovered the author of the 
theft in an English internment camp; it was I 
who prevailed upon him to acquiesce in our 
terms; it was I who finally located the hiding- 
place of the document .... all this, mark 


142 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


you, without setting foot in England.’’ 

My thoughts flew back again to the three slips 
of paper in their canvas cover, the divided crest, 
the big, sprawling, upright handwriting. I 
should have known that hand. I had seen it 
often enough on certain photographs which were 
accorded the place of honor in the drawing-room 
at Consistorial-Eat von Mayburg’s at Bonn. 

‘‘I therefore had the prior claim,” Clubfoot 
continued, ‘‘to be entrusted with the important 
task of fetching the document and of handing it 
back to the writer. But the gentleman was in a 
hurry; the gentleman always is; he could not 
wait for that old slowcoach of a Clubfoot to ma- 
ture his plans for getting into England, secur- 
ing the document, and getting out again. 

“So Bemstortf is called into consultation, the 
head of an embassy that has made the German 
secret service the laughing-stock of the world, 
an ambassador that has his private papers 
filched by a common sneak-thief in the under- 
ground railway and is fool enough to send home 
the most valuable documents by a jackass of a 
military attache who lets the whole lot be taken 
from him by a dunderheaded British customs 
ofiicer at Falmouth! This was the man who 
was to replace me! 

‘ ‘ Bernstorif is accordingly bidden to despatch 
one of his trusty servants to England, with all 


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 143 

suitable precautions, to do my work. You are 
chosen, and I will pay you the compliment of 
saying that you fulfilled your mission in a man- 
ner that is singularly out of keeping with the 
usual method of procedure of that gentleman’s 
emissaries. 

^‘But, my dear Doktor . . . pray fill your 
glass. That cigar is good, is it not? I thought 
you would appreciate a good cigar. . . . As I 
was saying, you were handicapped from the 
first. When you reach the place indicated to 
you in your instructions, you find only half the 
document. The wily thief has sliced it in two so 
as to make sure of his money before parting 
with the goods. They didn’t know, of course, 
that Clubfoot, the old slowcoach, who is past his 
work, was aware of this already, and had made 
his plans accordingly. But, in the end, they had 
to send for me. ‘The good Clubfoot,’ ‘old chap,’ 
‘sly old fox,’ and all the rest of it — ^would run 
across to England and secure the other half, 
while Count Bernstorlf’s smart young man from 
America would wait in Rotterdam until Herr 
Dr. Grundt arrived and handed him the other 
portion. 

“But Count Bemstorlf’s young man does 
nothing of the kind. He is one too many for the 
old fox. He does not wait for him. He runs 
away, after displaying unusual determination in 


144 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 

dealing with a prying Englander — ^whose fate 
should be a lesson to all who interfere in other 
people’s business — and goes to Germany, leav- 
ing poor old Clubfoot in the lurch. You must 
admit, Herr Doktor, that I have been hardly 
used — by yourself as well as by another per- 
son. ’ ’ 

My throat was dry with anxiety. What did 
the man mean by his veiled allusions to “all 
who interfere in other people’s business?” 

I cleared my throat to speak. 

Clubfoot raised a great hand in deprecation. 

“No explanation, Herr Doktor, I beg” (his 
tone was perfectly unconcerned and friendly), 
“let me have my say. When I found out that 
you had left Rotterdam — ^by the way, you must 
let me congratulate you on the remarkable fer- 
tility of resource you displayed in quitting Frau 
Schratt’s hospitable house — ^when I found you 
were gone, I sat down and thought things out. 

“I reflected that an astute American like 
yourself (believe me, you are very astute) 
would probably be accustomed to look at every- 
thing from the business standpoint. ‘ I will also 
consider the matter from the business stand- 
point,’ I said to myself, and I decided that, in 
your place, I too would not be content to accept, 
as sole payment for the danger of my mission, 
the scarcely generous compensation that Count 


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 145 


Bernstorff allots to his collaborators. No, I 
should wish to secure a little renown for myself, 
or, were that not possible, then some monetary 
gain proportionate with the risks I had run. 
You see, I have been at pains to put myself 
wholly in your place. I hope I have not said 
anything tactless. If so, I can at least acquit 
myself of any desire to offend.’’ 

^‘On the contrary, Herr Doktor,” I replied, 
^‘you are the model of tact and diplomacy.” 

His eyes narrowed a little at this. I thought 
he wouldn’t like that word ‘‘diplomacy.” 

“Another glass of wine! You may safely 
venture ; there is not a headache in a bottle of 
it. Well, Herr Doktor, since you have followed 
me so patiently thus far, I will go further. I 
told you, when I first saw you this evening, that 
I was delighted at our meeting. That was no 
mere banality, but the sober truth. For, you 
see, I am the very person with whom, in the 
circumstances, you would wish to get in touch. 
Deprived of the honor, rightly belonging to me, 
of undertaking this mission single-handed and 
of fulfilling it alone, I find that you can enable 
me to carry out the mission to a successful con- 
clusion, whilst I, for my part, am able and wil- 
ling to recompense your services as they de- 
serve and not according to Bernstorff ’s starva- 
tion scale. 


146 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

make a long story short, Herr Doktor 
. . . how much? 

He brought his remarks to this abrupt anti- 
climax so suddenly that I was taken aback.. The 
man was watching me intently for all his ap- 
parent nonchalance, and I felt more than ever 
the necessity for being on my guard. If I could 
only fathom how much he knew. Of two things 
I felt fairly sure : the fellow believed me to he 
Semlin and was under the impression that I 
still retained my portion of the document. I 
should have to gain time. The bargain he pro- 
posed over my half of the letter might give me 
an opportunity of doing that. Moreover, I 
must find out whether he really had the other 
half of the document, and in that case, where 
he kept it. 

He broke the silence. 

‘‘Well, Herr Doktor,’’ he said, “do you want 
me to start the bidding? You needn’t be afraid. 
I am generous.” 

I leant forward earnestly in my chair. 

“You have spoken with admirable frankness, 
Herr Doktor,” I said, “and I will be equally 
plain, but I will be brief. In the first place, I 
wish to know that you are the man you profess 
to be : so far, you must remember, I have only 
the assurance of our excitable young friend.” 

“Your caution is most praiseworthy,” said 


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 147 

the other, ‘^but I should imagine I carry my 
name written on my boot.’’ And he lifted his 
hideous and deformed foot. 

‘ ^ That is scarcely sufficient guarantee, ’ ’ I an- 
swered, ‘Hn a matter of this importance. A 
detail like that could easily be counterfeited, or 
otherwise provided for.” 

‘ ‘ My badge, ’ ’ and the man produced from his 
waistcoat pocket a silver star identical with the 
one I carried on my braces, but bearing only 
the letter above the inscription ^^Abt. 

VII.” 

‘^That, even,” I retorted, ‘4s not conclusive.” 

Clubfoot’s mind was extraordinarily alert, 
however gross and heavy his body might be. 

He paused for a moment in reflection, his 
hands crossed upon his great paunch. 

“Why not?” he said suddenly, reached out 
for his cigar-case, beside him on the table, and 
produced three slips of paper highly glazed 
and covered with that unforgettable, sprawling 
hand, a portion of a gilded crest at the top — in 
short, the missing half of the document I had 
found in Semlin’s bag. Clubfoot held them out 
fanwise for me to see, but well out of my reach, 
and he kept a great, spatulate thumb over the 
top of the first sheet where the name of the ad- 
dressee should have been. 

“I trust you are now convinced, Herr Dok- 


148 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

tor,” he said, with a smile that bared his teeth, 
and, putting the pieces together, he folded them 
across, tucked them carefully away in the 
cigar-case again, and thrust it into his pocket. 

I must test the ground further. 

‘‘Has it occurred to you, Herr Doktor,” I 
asked, “that we have very little time at our dis- 
posal? The person whom we serve must be 
anxiously waiting. . . . ” 

Clubfoot laughed and shook his head. 

“I want that half-letter badly,” he said, “but 
there’s no violent hurry. So I fear you must 
leave that argument out of your presentation 
of the case, for it has no commercial value. The 
person you speak of is not in Berlin. ’ ’ 

I had heard something of the Kaiser’s sudden 
appearances and disappearances during the 
war, but I had not thought they could be so well 
managed as to be kept from the knowledge of 
one of his own trusted servants, for such I 
judged Clubfoot to be. Evidently, he knew no- 
thing of my visit to the Castle that evening, and 
I was for a moment unpatriotic enough to wish 
I had kept my half of the letter that I might 
give it to Clubfoot now to save the coming ex- 
posure. “A thousand dollars!” Clubfoot said. 

I remained silent. 

“Two? Three? Four thousand? Man, you 


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 149 

are greedy. Well, I will make it five thousand- 
twenty thousand marks. . . 

“Herr Hoktor,’’ I said, “I don’t want your 
money. I want to be fair with you. When the 
. . . the person we know of sends for you, we 
will go together. You shall tell the large part 
you have played in this affair. I only want 
credit for what I have done, nothing more. ...” 

A knock came at the door. The porter en- 
tered. 

“A telegram for the Herr Doktor,” he said, 
presenting a salver. 

Somewhere near by a band was playing dance 
music . . . one of those rousing, splendidly ac- 
cented Viennese waltzes. There seemed to be 
a ball on, for, through the open door of the 
room, I heard, mingled with the strains of the 
music, the sound of feet and the hum of voices. 
Then the door closed, shutting out the outer 
world again. 

“You permit me,” said Grundt curtly, as he 
broke the seal of the telegram. So as not to 
seem to observe him, I got up and walked across 
to the window, and leaned against the warm 
radiator. 

“Well?” said a voice from the arm-chair. 

“Well?” I echoed. 

“I have made you my proposal, Herr Doktor : 
you have made yours. Yours is quite unaccept- 


ISO THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


able. I have told you with great frankness why 
it is necessary that I should have your portion 
of the document and the sum I am prepared to 
pay for it. I set its value at five thousand dol- 
lars. I will pay you the money over in cash, 
here and now ,in good German bank-notes, in 
exchange for those slips of paper.’’ 

The man’s suavity had all but vanished: his 
voice was harsh and stern. His eyes glittered 
under his shaggy brows as he looked at me. 
Had I been less agitated, I should have noted 
this, as a portent of the coming storm, also his 
great ape’s hands picking nervously at the tele- 
gram in his lap. 

‘‘I have already told you,” I said firmly,' 
‘‘that I dbn’t want your money. You know my 
terms I ’ ’ 

He rose up from his seat and his figure seemed 
to tower. 

“Terms?” he cried in a voice that quivered 
with suppressed passion, “terms? Understand 
that I give orders. I accept terms from no man. 
We waste time here talking. Come, take the 
money and give me the paper.” 

I shook my head. My brain was clear, but I 
felt the crisis was coming. I took a good grip 
with my hands of the marble slab covering the 
radiator behind me to give me confidence. The 
slab yielded: I noted that it was loose. 


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 151 

The man in front of me was shaking with 
rage. 

‘‘Listen!’’ he said. “I’ll give you one more 
chance. But mark my words well. Do you know 
what happened to the man that stole that docu- 
ment? The English took him out and shot him 
on account of what was found in his house when 
they raided it. Do you know what happened to 
the interpreter at the internment camp, who was 
our go-between, who played us false by cutting 
the document in half? The English shot him 
too, on account of what was found in letters that 
came to him openly through the post? And who 
settled Schulte? And who settled the other 
man? Who contrived the traps that sent them 
to their doom? It was 7, Grundt, 7, the cripple, 
7, the Clubfoot, that had these traitors des- 
patched as an example to the six thousand of 
us who serve our Emperor and empire in dark- 
ness! You dog. I’ll smash you!” 

He was gibbering like an angry ape : his frame 
was shaking with fury : every hair in the tangle 
on his face and hands seemed to bristle with his 
Berserker frenzy. 

But he kept away from me, and I saw that he 
was still fighting to preserve his self-control. 

I maintained a bold front. 

“This may do for your own people,” I said 


13 ^ THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


contemptuously, ‘‘but it doesn’t impress me. 
I’m an American citizen!” 

He was calmer now, but bis eyes glittered 
dangerously. 

“An American citizen?” he said in an icy 
tone. Then he fairly hissed at me : 

“You fool! Blind, besotted fool! Do you 
think you can trifle with the might of the Ger- 
man Empire? Ah! I’ve played a pretty game 
with you, you dirty English dog! I’ve watched 
you squirming and writhing whilst the stupid 
German told you his pretty little tale and plied 
you with his wine and his cigars. You’re in 
our power now, you miserable English hound! 
Do you understand that? Now call on your fleet 
to come and save you ! 

“Listen! I’ll be frank with you to the last. 
I’ve had my suspicions of you from the first, 
when they telephoned me that you had escaped 
from the hotel, but I wanted to make sure. Ever 
since you have been in this room it has been in 
my power to push that bell there and send you 
to Spandau, where they rid us of such dirty dogs 
as you. 

“But the game amused me. I liked to see the 
Herr Englander playing the spy against me, the 
master of them all. Do you know, you fool, that 
old Schratt knows English, that she spent years 
of her harlot’s life in London, and that when you 


A GLASS OF WINE WITH CLUBFOOT 15J 

allowed her a glimpse of that passport, your 
own passport, the one you so cleverly burned, 
she remembered the name? Ah! you didn’t 
know that, did you? 

“Shall I tell you what was in that telegram 
they just brought me? It was from Schratt, 
our faithful Schratt, who shall have a bangle for 
this night’s work, to say that the corpse at the 
hotel has a chain round its neck with an identity 
disc in the name of Semlin. Ha! you didn’t 
know that either, did you? 

“And you would bargain and chaffer with me ! 
You would dictate your terms, you scum! You 
with your head in a noose, a spy that has failed 
in his mission, a miserable wretch that I can send 
to his death with a flip of my little finger! You 
impudent hound! Well, you’ll get your deserts 
this time. Captain Desmond Okewood . . . but 
I’ll have that paper first!” 

Eoaring “Give it to me!” he rushed at me 
like some frenzied beast of the jungle. The 
veins stood out at his temples, his hairy nostrils 
opened and closed as his breath came faster, his 
long arms shot out and his great paws clutched 
at my throat. 

But I was waiting for him. As he came at me, 

I heard his clubfoot stump once on the polished 
floor, then, from the radiator behind me, I raised 
high in my arms the heavy marble slab, and 


134 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 

with every ounce of strength in my body brought 
it crashing down on his head. 

He fell like a log, the blood oozing sluggishly 
from his head on to the parquet. I stopped an 
instant, snatched the cigar-case from the pocket 
where he had placed it, extracted the document 
and fled from the room. 


CHAPTER XI 


MISS MAEY PBENDERQAST RISKS HER REPUTATION 

T he rooms of our suite were intercom- 
municating SO that you could pass from 
one to the other without going into the 
corridor at all. Schmalz had retired this way, 
going from my room through the bathroom to 
his own room. In the excitement of the moment 
I forgot all about this, else I should not have 
omitted such an elementary precaution as slip- 
ping the bolt of the door communicating between 
my room and the bathroom. 

As I stepped out into the corridor, with the 
crash of that heavy body still ringing in my 
ears, I thought I caught the sound of a light 
step in the bathroom ; the next moment I heard 
a door open and then a loud exclamation of 
horror in the room I had just left. 

The corridor was dim and deserted. The 
place seemed uninhabited. No boots stood 
outside the rooms, and open doors, one after 


155 


136 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

the other, were sufficient indication that the 
apartments they led to were untenanted. 

I didn’t pause to reason or to plan. On hear- 
ing that long drawn out cry of horror, I dashed 
blindly down the corridor at top speed, followed 
it round to the right and then, catching sight of 
a small staircase, rushed up it three steps at a 
time. As I reached the top I heard a loud cry 
somewhere on the floor below. Then a door 
banged, there was the sound of running feet 
and . . . silence. 

I found myself on the next floor in a corridor 
similar to the one I had just left. Like it, it was 
desolate and dimly lit. Like it, it showed room 
after room silent and empty. Agitated as I 
was, the contrast with the bright and busy vesti- 
bule and the throng of uniformed servants be- 
low was so marked that it struck me with con- 
vincing force. Even the hotels, it seemed, were 
part and parcel of the great German publicity 
bluff which I had noted in my reading of the 
German papers at Eotterdam. 

I had no plan in my head, only a wild desire 
to put as much distance as possible between me 
and that ape-man in the room below. So, after 
pausing a moment to listen and draw breath, I 
started off again. Suddenly a door down the 
corridor, not ten paces away from me, opened 
and a woman came out. I stopped dead in my 


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST 


^57 

headlong course, but it was too late and I found 
myself confronting her. 

She was young and very beautiful with masses 
of thick brown hair clustering round a very 
white forehead. She was in evening dress, all 
in white, with an ermine wrap. 

Even as I looked at her I knew her and she 
knew me. 

‘‘Monica,’^ I whispered. 

^‘Why! Desmond!’’ she said. 

A regular hubbub echoed from below. Voices 
were crying out, doors were banging, there was 
the sound of feet. 

The girl was speaking, saying in her low and 
pleasant voice phrases that were vague to me 
about her surprise, her delight at seeing me. 
But I did not listen to her. I was straining my 
ears towards that volume of chaotic noises 
which came swelling up from below. 

“Monica!” I interrupted swiftly, “have you 
any place to hide me? This place is dangerous 
for me. ... I must get away. If you can’t 
save me, don’t stay here but get away yourself 
as fast as you can. They’re after me and if 
they catch you with me it will be bad for you!” 

Without a word the girl turned round to the 
room she had just left. She beckoned to me, 
then knocked and went in. I followed her. It 
was a big, pleasant bedroom, elegantly furnished 


158 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


with a soft carpet and silk hangings, and I know 
not what, with shaded lights and flowers in pro- 
fusion. Sitting up in bed was a stout, placid- 
looking woman in a pink silk kimono with her 
hair coquettishly braided in two short pigtails 
which hung down on either side of her face. 
Monica closed the door softly behind her. 
‘‘Why, Monica!’’ she exclaimed in horror — 
and her speech was that of the United States — 
“what on earth ...” 

“Not a word, Mary, but let me explain. ...” 
“But for land’s sake, Monica. . . . ” 

“Mary, I want you to help. . . . ” 

“But say, child, a man ... in my bed- 
room . . . at this time o’ night. ...” 

‘ ‘ Oh, shucks, Mary ! let me talk. ’ ’ 

The distress of the woman in bed was so 
comic that I could scarcely help laughing. She 
had dragged the bed-clothes up till only her 
eyes could be seen. Her pigtails bobbed about 
in her emotion. 

“Now, Mary dear, listen here.. You’re a 
friend of mine. This is Desmond Okewood, 
another, a very old and dear friend of mine, too. 
Well, you know, Mary, this isn’t a healthy coun- 
try these times for an English officer. That’s 
what Desmond here is. I didn’t know he was in 
Germany. I don’t know a thing about him ex- 
cept what he’s told me and that’s that he’s in 


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST 


^59 


danger and wants me to help him. I met him 
outside and brought him right in here, as I 
know you would want me to, wouldn^t you, 
dear?’’ 

The lady poked her nose over the top of the 
bed-clothes. 

‘‘Present the gentleman properly, Monica!” 
she said severely. 

“Captain Okewood . . . Miss Mary Pren- 
dergast,” said Monica. 

The lady’s head, pigtails and all, now ap- 
peared. She appeared to be somewhat molli- 
fied. 

“I can’t say I approve of your way of doing 
things, Monica, ’ ’ she observed, hut less severely 
than before, “and I can’t think what an English 
officer wants in my bedroom at ten minutes of 
two in the morning, but if those Deutschers 
want to find him, perhaps I can understand 1 ’ ’ 

Here she smiled affectionately on the beauti- 
ful girl at my side. 

“Ah! Mary, you’re a dear,” replied Monica. 
“I knew you’d help us. Why, a British officer 
in Germany . . . isn’t it too thrilling?” 

She turned to me. 

“But, Des,” she said, “what do you want me 
to do?” 

I knew I could trust Monica and I resolved I 
would trust her friend too . . . she looked a 


i6o THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


white woman all right. And if she was a friend 
of Monica’s her heart would he in the right 
place. Francis and I had known Monica all 
our lives almost. Her father had lived for 
years ... indeed to the day of his death . . . 
in London as the principal Europe^^n represen- 
tative of a big American financial house. They 
had lived next door to us in London and Francis 
and I had known Monica from the days when 
she was a pretty kid in short skirts until she 
had made her debut and the American ambassa- 
dress had presented her at Buckingham Palace. 
At various stages of our lives, both Francis and 
I had been in love with her, I believe, but my 
life in the army had kept me much abroad, so 
Francis had seen most of her and had been the 
hardest hit. 

Then the father died and Monica went travel- 
ing abroad in great state, as befits a young 
heiress, with a prodigiously respectable Ameri- 
can chaperon and a retinue of retainers. I 
never knew the rights of the case between her 
and Francis, but at one of the German embassies 
abroad — I think in Vienna — she met the young 
Count Rachwitz, head of one of the great Sile- 
sian noble houses, and married him. 

It was not on the usual rock — ^money — that 
this German- American marriage was wrecked, 
for the Count was very wealthy himself. I had 


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST i6i 

supposed that the German man’s habitual atti- 
tude of mind towards women had not suited 
the girl’s independent spirit on hearing that 
Monica, a few years after her marriage, had 
left her husband and gone to live in America. 
I had not seen her since she left London, and, 
though we wrote to one another at intervals, I 
had not heard from her since the war started 
and had no idea that she had returned to Ger- 
many. Monica Rachwitz was, in fact, the last 
person I should ever have expected to meet in 
Berlin in war-time. 

So, as briefly as I could and listening intently 
throughout for any sounds from the corridor, I 
gave the two women the story of the disappear- 
ance of Francis and my journey into Germany 
to look for him. At the mention of my brother’s 
name, I noticed that the girl stilfened and her 
face grew rigid, but when I told her of my fears 
for his safety her blue eyes seemed to me to 
grow dim. I described to them my adventure 
in the hotel at Rotterdam, my reception in the 
house of General von Boden, and my interview 
at the Castle, ending with the experiences of 
that night, the trap laid for me at the hotel and 
my encounter with Clubfoot in the room be- 
low. Two things only I kept back : the message 
from Francis and the document. I decided 
within myself that the fewer people in those 


i6^ THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


secrets the safer they would be. I am afraid, 
therefore, that my account of my interview with 
the Emperor was a trifle garbled, for I made out 
that I did not know why I was bidden to the 
presence and that our conversation was inter- 
rupted before I could discover the reason. 

The two women listened with grave faces. 
Only once did Monica interrupt me. It was 
when I mentioned General von Boden. 

'‘I know the beast,’’ she said. “But, oh, 
Des!” she exclaimed, “you seem to have fallen 
right among the top set in this country. They’re 
a bad lot to cross. I fear you are in terrible 
danger. ’ ’ 

“I believe you, Monica,” I answered, dole- 
fully enough. “And that’s just where I feel 
such a beast for throwing myself upon your 
mercy in this way. But I was pretty desperate 
when I met you just now and I didn’t know 
where to turn. Still, I want you to understand 
that if you can only get me out of this place I 
shall not trouble you further. I came to this 
country on my own responsibility and I’m going 
through with it alone. I have no intention of 
implicating anybody else along with me. But I 
confess I don’t believe it is possible to get away 
from this hotel. They’re watching every door 
by now. Besides ...” 

I stopped abruptly. A noise outside caught 


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST 163 

my listening ear. Footsteps were approaching 
along the corridor. I heard doors open and 
shut. They were hunting for me, floor by floor, 
room by room. 

‘‘Open that wardrobe,’^ said a voice from the 
bed: a firm, business-like voice that was good 
to hear. ‘ ‘ Open it and get right in, young man ; 
but don^t go mussing up my good dresses what- 
ever you do ! (And you, Monica, quick ! Switch 
otf those lights all but this one by the bed. Good ! 
Now go to the door and ask them what they 
mean by making this noise at this time of night 
with me ill and all ! ’ ^ 

I got into the wardrobe and Monica shut me 
in. I heard the bedroom door open, then voices. 
I waited patiently for five minutes, then the 
wardrobe door opened again. 

“Come out, Des,’^ said Monica, “and thank 
Mary Prendergast for her cleverness.’’ 

“What did they say?” I asked. 

“That reception clerk was along. He was 
most apologetic — they know me here, you see. 
He told me how a fellow had made a desperate 
attack upon a gentleman on the floor below and 
had got away. Thoy thought he must be hiding 
somewhere in the hotel. I told him I’d been sit- 
ting here for an hour chatting with Miss Pren- 
dergast and that we hadn’t heard a sound. They 
went away then!” 


i 64 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 

‘‘You won’t catch any Deutschers fooling 
Mary Prendergast,” said the jovial lady in the 
bed; “but, children, what next?” 

Monica spoke — quite calmly. She was always 
perfectly self-possessed. 

‘ ‘ My brother is stopping with me in our apart- 
ment in the Bendler-Strasse,” she said. “You 
remember Gerry, Des — he got all smashed up 
flying, you know, and is practically a cripple. 
He’s been so much better here that I’ve been 
trying to get an attendant to look after him, to 
dress him and so on, but we couldn’t find any- 
body; men are so scarce nowadays ! You could 
come home with me, Des, and take this man’s 
place for a day or two . . .I’m afraid it 
couldn’t be longer, for one would have to regis- 
ter you with the police — every one has to be 
registered, you know — and I suppose you have 
no papers that are any good — ^now. ’ ’ 

“You are too kind, Monica,” I answered, 
“but you risk too much and I can’t accept.” 

“It’s no risk for a day or two,” she said. 
“I am a person of consequence in official Ger- 
many, you know, with my husband A.D.C. to 
Marshal von Mackensen : and I can always say 
I forgot to send in your papers. If they come 
down upon me afterwards I should say I meant 
to register you but had to discharge you sud- 
denly . . . for drink!” 


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST 16 ^ 

‘‘But how can I get away from hereT’ I ob- 
jected. 

“I guess we can fix that too/^ she replied. 
“My car is coming for me at two — it must be 
that now — I have been at a dance downstairs — 
one of the Radolin girls is getting married to 
morrow — it was so deadly dull I ran up here 
and woke up Mary Prendergast to talk. You 
shall be my chauffeur ! I know you drive a car ! 
You ought to be able to manage mine . . .it’s 
a Mercedes.” 

“I can drive any old car,” I said, “but I’m 
blessed ...” 

“Wait there !” cried this remarkable girl, and 
ran out of the room. 

For twenty minutes I stood and made small 
talk with Miss Prendergast. They were the 
longest twenty minutes I have ever spent. I 
was dead tired in any case, but my desperate 
position kept my thoughts so busy that, for all 
my endeavors to be polite, I fear my conversa- 
tion was extremely distraught. 

“You poor boy!” suddenly said Miss Mary 
Prendergast, totally ignoring a profound re- 
mark I was making regarding Mr. Wilson’s 
policy, “don’t you go on talking to me! Sit 
down on that chair and go to sleep ! You look 
just beat!” 

I sat down and nodded in the arm-chair. 


i66 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


Suddenly I was awake. Monica stood before 
me. She drew from under her cape a livery 
cap and uniform. 

‘‘Put these things on/’ she said, “and listen 
carefully. When you leave here, turn to the 
right and take the little staircase you will find on 
the right. Go down to the bottom, go through 
the glass doors, and across the room you will find 
there, to a door in a corner which leads to the 
ballroom entrance of the hotel. I will give you 
my ermine wrap to carry.^ I shall be waiting 
there. You will help me on with my cloak and 
escort me to the car. Is that clear?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“Now, pay attention once more, for I shall 
not be able to speak to you again. I shall have 
to give you your directions for finding the way 
to the Bendler-Strasse.” 

She did so and added: 

“Drive carefully, whatever you do. If we 
had a smash and the police intervened, it might 
be most awkward for you. 

“But your chauffeur,” I said, “what will he 
do?” 

“Oh, Carter,” she answered carelessly, “he’s 
tickled to death . . .he’s American, you see 
... he drove me out into the Tiergarten just 
now and took off his livery, then drove me back 
here, hopped off and went home.” 


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST 167 

“But can yon trust him?’’ I asked anxiously. 

“Like myself,” she said. “Besides, Carter’s 
been to Belgium ... he drove Count Rach- 
witz, my husband, while he was on duty there. 
And Carter hasn’t forgotten what he saw in 
Belgium!” 

She gave me the key of the garage and fur- 
ther instructions how to put the car up. Carter 
would give me a bed at the garage and would 
bring me round to the house early in the morn- 
ing as if I were applying for the job of male 
attendant for Gerry. 

“I will go down first,” Monica said, “so as 
not to keep you waiting. My, hut they’re 
rattled downstairs — all the crowd at Olga von 
Radolin’s dance have got hold of the story and 
the place is full of policemen. But there’ll be 
no danger if you walk straight up to me in the 
hall and keep your face turned away from the 
crowd as much as possible.” 

She kissed Miss Prendergast and slipped 
away. What a splendid pair of women they 
were : so admirably cool and resourceful : they 
seemed to have thought of everything. 

“Good night. Miss Prendergast,” I said. 
“You have done me a good turn. I shall never 
forget it!” And as the only means at my dis- 
posal for showing my gratitude, I kissed her 
hand. 


i68 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


She colored up like a girl. 

‘‘lUs a long time since any one did that to a 
silly old woman like me,’^ she said musingly. 
‘‘Was it you or your brother/’ she asked ab- 
ruptly, “who nearly broke my poor girl’s 
heart?” 

“I shouldn’t like to say,” I answered; “but 
I don’t think, speaking personally, that Monica 
ever cared enough about me for me to plead 
guilty.” 

She sniffed contemptuously. 

“If that is so,” she said, “all I can say is 
that you seem to have all the brains of your 
family!” 

With that I took my leave. 


I reached the ballroom vestibule without 
meeting a soul. The place was crowded with 
people, officers in uniform, glittering with 
decorations, women in evening dress, coach- 
men, footmen, chauffeurs, waiters. Everybody 
was talking sixteen to the dozen, and there were 
such dense knots of people that at first I couldn’t 
see Monica. Two policemen were standing at 
the swing-doors leading into the street, and with 
them a civilian who looked like a detective. I 
caught sight of Monica, almost at the detec- 


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST j6p 

tive’s elbow, talking to two very elegant-looking 
officers. I pushed my way across the vestibule, 
turned my back on the detective and stood im- 
passively beside her. 

^‘Ah! there you are. Carter!’’ she said. 
‘‘Gute Nacht, Herr Baron! Auf wiedersehen, 
Durchlaucht ! ” 

The two officers kissed her hand whilst I 
helped her into her wrap. Then I marched 
straight out of the swing-doors in front of her, 
looking neither to right nor to left, past the de- 
tective and the two policemen. The detective 
may have looked at me: if so, I didn’t perceive 
it. I had made up my mind not to see him. 

Outside Monica took the lead and brought 
me over to a chocolate-colored limousine drawn 
up at the pavement. I noted with dismay that 
the engine was stopped. That might mean 
further delay whilst I cranked up. But a 
friendly chauffeur standing by seized the handle 
and started the engine whilst I assisted Monica 
into the car, and the next moment we were 
gliding smoothly over the asphalt under the 
twinkling arc-lamps. 

The Bendler-Strasse is off the Tiergarten, not 
far from the Esplanade, and I found my way 
there without much difficulty. I flatter myself 
that both Monica and I played our parts well, 
and I am sure nothing could have been more 


170 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


professional than the way I helped her to alight. 
It was an apartment house and she had the key 
of the front door, so, after seeing her safely 
within doors, I returned to the car and drove 
it round to the garage by a carriage-way leading 
to the rear of the premises. 

As I unlocked the double doors of the garage, 
a man came down a ladder outside the place 
leading to the upper room. 

‘‘Did it work all right, sir?’^ he asked. 

“Is that Carter?” I said. 

“Sure that’s me,” came the cheery response. 
“Stand by now and we’ll run her in. Then I’ll 
show you where you are to sleep!” 

We stowed the car away and he took me up- 
stairs to his quarters, a bright little room with 
electric light, a table with a red cloth, a cheer- 
ful open fire and two beds. The walls were or- 
namented with pictures cut from the American 
Sunday supplements, mostly feminine and horsy 
studies. 

“It’s a bit rough, mister,” said Carter, “but 
it’s the best I can do. Gee! but you look that 
dawg-gorn tired I guess you could sleep any- 
wheres ! ’ ’ 

He was a friendly fellow, pleasant-looking in 
an ugly way, with a button nose and honest 
eyes. 

“Say, but I like to think of the way we 


MISS MARY PRENDERGAST 


171 


fooled them Deutschers/^ he chuckled. He 
kept on chuckling to himself whilst I took off 
my boots and began to undress. 

‘^That there is your bed/’ he said, pointing; 
‘^the footman used to sleep there but they 
grabbed him for the army. There’s a pair of 
Mr. Gerry’s pyjamas for you and you’ll find a 
cup of cocoa down warming by the fire. It’s all 
a bit rough, but it’s the best we can do. I guess 
you want to go to sleep mortal bad, so I’ll be 
going down. The bed’s clean . . . there are 
clean sheets on it. . . . ” 

“But I won’t turn you out of your room,” I 
said. “There are two beds. You must take 
yours.” 

“Don’t you fret yourself about me,” he 
answered. “ I ’ll make myself comfortable down 
in the garage. I don’t often see a gentleman 
in this dawg-gorn country, and when I do I 
know how to treat him. ’ ’ 

He wouldn’t listen to me, but stumped off 
down the stairs. As he went I heard him mur- 
muring to himself : 

‘ ‘ Gee ! but we surely fooled those Deutschers 
some ! ’ ’ 

I drank this admirable fellow’s cocoa; I 
warmed myself at his fire. Then with a thank- 
ful heart I crawled into bed and sank into a 
deep and dreamless sleep. 


CHAPTER Xn 


HIS EXCELLENCY THE GENERAL IS WORRIED 

I SAT with Monica in her boudoir, which, 
unlike the usual run of German rooms, had 
an open fireplace in which a cheerful fire 
was burning. Monica, in a ravishing kimono, 
was perched on the leather railed seat running 
round the fireplace, one little foot in a satin 
slipper held out to the blaze. In that pretty 
room she made a charming picture, which for 
a moment almost made me forget the manifold 
dangers besetting me. 

The doughty Carter had acquitted himself 
nobly of his task. When I awoke, feeling 
like a giant refreshed, he had the fire blazing 
merrily in the fireplace, while on the table a 
delicious breakfast of tea and fried eggs and 
biscuits was spread. 

There ain’t no call to mess yourself up 
inside with that dam’ war bread of theirs,” he 
chirped. ‘^Miss Monica, she lets me have bis- 


172 


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED 


173 


cuits, same like she has herself. I always calls 
her Miss Monica,” he explained, ‘^like what 
they did over at her uncle’s place in Long Is- 
land, where I used to work.” 

After breakfast he produced hot water, a 
safety razor and other toilet requisites, a 
clean shirt and collar, an overcoat and a Stetson 
hat — all from Gerry’s wardrobe, I presumed. 
My boots, too, were beautifully polished, and 
it was as a new man altogether, fresh in mind 
and clean in body, that I presented myself, 
about ten o’clock in the morning, at the front 
door and demanded the ‘‘Frau Grafin.” By 
Carter’s advice I had removed my moustache, 
and my clean-shaven countenance, together 
with my black felt hat and dark overcoat, 
gave me, I think, that appearance of rather dour 
respectability which one looks for in a male at- 
tendant. 

Now Monica and I sat and reviewed the situa- 
tion together. 

“German servants spend their lives in pry- 
ing into their masters’ affairs,” she said, “but 
we shan’t be interrupted here. That door 
leads into Gerry’s room: he was asleep when 
I went in just now. I’ll take you in to him 
presently. Now tell me about yourself . . . and 
Francis!” 

I told her again, but at greater length, all I 


174 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 


knew about Francis, his mission into Germany, 
his long silence. 

‘‘I acted on impulse,^’ I said, ‘‘but, believe 
me, I acted for the best. Only, everything 
seems to have conspired against me. I appear 
to have walked straight into a mesh of the most 
appalling complications which reach right up 
to the Throne.’’ 

“Never mind, Des,” she said, leaning over 
and putting a little hand on my arm, “it was 
for Francis; you and I would do anything to 
help him, wouldn’t we? . . . if he is still alive. 
Impulse is not such a bad thing, after all. If 
I had acted on impulse once, maybe poor Fran- 
cis would not now be in the fix he is. . . . ” 

And she sighed. 

“Things look black enough, Des,” she went 
on. “Maybe you and I won’t get the chance 
of another chat like this again and that’s why 
I’m going to tell you something I have never 
told anybody else. I am only telling you so 
you will know that, whatever happens, you will 
always find in me an ally in your search . . . 
though, tied as I am, I scarcely think I can ever 
help you much. 

“You brother wanted me to marry him. I 
liked him better than anybody else I had ever 
met ... or have ever met since, for that mat- 
ter. . . . Daddy was dead, I was absolutely free 


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED 


^75 


to please myself, so no difficulties stood in the 
way. But your brother was proud ... his 
pride was greater than his love for me, I told 
him when we parted . . . and he wouldn’t hear 
of marriage until he had made himself inde- 
pendent, though I had enough for both of us. 
He wanted me to wait a year or two until he 
had got his business started properly, hut his 
pride angered me and I wouldn’t. 

‘‘So we quarreled and I went abroad with 
Mrs. Eushwood. Francis never wrote: all I 
heard about him was an occasional scrap in 
your letters. Mrs. Eushwood was crazy about 
titles, and she ran me round from court to court, 

1 always looking for what she called a suitable 
parti for me. At Vienna we met Eachwitz , . . 
he was very good looking and very well man- 
j nered and seemed to be really fond of me. 

“Well, I gave Francis another chance. I 
wrote him a friendly letter and told him about 
Eachwitz wanting to marry me and asked his 
advice. He wrote me back a beastly letter, a 
wicked letter, Des. ‘Any girl who is fool enough 
to sell herself for a title,’ he said, ‘richly de- 
serves a German husband. ’ What do you think 
of that?” 

“Poor old Francis,” I said. “He was ter- 
ribly fond of you, Monica!” 

“Well, his letter did it. I married Eachwitz 


176 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

. . . and have been miserable ever since. I’m 
not going to bore you with a long story about 
my matrimonial troubles. No! I’m not going 
to cry either! I’m not crying! Karl is not a 
bad man, as German men go, and he’s a gentle- 
man, but bis love affairs and bis drunken 
parties and bis attitude of mind towards me; 
it was so utterly different to everything I bad 
been used to. Then you. know, I left him.” 

“But, Monica,” I exclaimed, “what are you 
doing here then I ’ ’ 

She sighed wearily. 

“I’m a German by marriage, Des,” she said, 
“you can’t get away from that. My husband’s 
country . . . my country . . . is at war and 
the wives must play their part, wherever their 
heart is. Karl never asked me to come back. 
I’ll give him the credit for that. I came of my 
own accord because I felt my place was here. 
So I go round to needlework parties and sewing 
bees and Eed Cross matinees and try to be civil 
to the German women and listen to their boast- 
ing and bragging about their army, their hypoc- 
risy about Belgium, their vilification of the best 
friends Daddy and I ever had, you English! 
But doing my duty by my husband does not 
forbid me to help my friends when they are in 
danger. That ’s why you can count on me, Des. ’ ’ 

And she gave me her hand. 


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED 177 

‘‘I want to be frank with you, too,^^ I said, 
‘^so, whatever happens to me, you wonT feel 
I have deceived you about things. I canT say 
much because my secret is not healthy for any- 
one to share, and, should they trace any con- 
nection between you and me, if they get me, it 
will be better for you not to have known any- 
thing compromising. But I want to tell you 
this. There is a consideration at stake which 
is higher than my own safety, higher even than 
Francis \ I donT believe I am afraid to die: 
if I escape here, I shall probably get killed at 
the front sooner or later: it is because of this 
consideration I speak of that I want to get away 
with my life back to England.’’ 

Monica laughed happily. 

‘‘Why do men always take us women to be 
fools?” she said. “You’re a dangerous man 
to have around, Des, I know that, without wor- 
rying my head about any old secret. But you 
are my friend and Francis’ brother and I’m 
going to help you. 

“Now, listen! Old von Boden was at that 
party last night: he came in late. Rudi von 
Boden, he told me, is going to take despatches 
to Rumania, to Mackensen’s headquarters. 
Well, I telephoned the old man this morning 
and asked him if Rudi would take a parcel for 
me to Karl. He said he would and the General 


1/5 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

is coming here to lunch to-day to fetch it. 

‘Won Boden is an old beast and runs after 
every woman he meets. He is by way of being 
partial to me, if you please, sir. I think I 
should be able to find out from him what are 
the latest developments in your case. There’s 
nothing in the paper this morning about the af- 
fair at the Esplanade. But then, these things 
are always hushed up.” 

“He’ll hardly say much in the circumstan- 
ces,” I objected. “After all, the Kaiser is in- 
volved. ...” 

“My dear Des, opinion of feminine intelli- 
gence in military circles in this country is so 
low that the women in the army set at Court 
are very often far better informed than the Gen- 
eral Statf. Von Boden will tell me all I want 
to know.” 

What a girl she was ! 

“About your friend, the clubfooted man,” 
she went on, “I’m rather puzzled. He must be 
a person of considerable importance to be 
fetched by special train straight into the Em- 
peror’s private apartments, where very few 
people ever penetrate, I assure you. But I’ve 
never heard of him. He’s certainly not a Court 
official. Nor is he the head of the Political Po- 
lice. . . . that’s Henninger, a friend of Karl’s. 
Still, there are people of great importance work- 


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED //p 

ing in dark places in this country and I guess 
Clubfoot must be one of them. 

‘‘Now, I think I ought to take you in to Gerry. 
I want to speak to you about him, Des. I 
daren’t tell him who you are. Gerry’s not him- 
self. He’s been a nervous wreck ever since his 
accident and I can’t trust him. He's a very 
conventional man and his principles would 
never hear of me harboring a . . . a . . . ” 

“Spy?” I suggested. 

“No, a friend,” she corrected. “So you’ll 
just have to be a male nurse, I guess. A Ger- 
man- American would be best, I think, as you’ll 
have to read the German papers to Gerry — he 
doesn’t know a word of German. Then, you 
must have a name of some kind. ...” 

“Frederick Meyer,” I suggested promptly, 
“from Pittsburg. It’ll have to be Pittsburg: 
Francis went there for a bit, you know: he 
wrote me a lot about the place and I’ve seen 
pictures of it, too. It’s the only American city 
I know anything about.” 

“Let it be Meyer from Pittsburg, then,” 
smiled Monica, “but you’ve got a terrible Eng- 
lish accent, Des. I guess we’ll have to tell Ger- 
ry you were years nursing in London before 
the war.” 

She hesitated a moment, then added : 

“Des, I’m afraid you’ll find Gerry very try- 


180 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


ing. He’s awfully irritable and . . . and very 
spiteful. So you must be careful not to give 
yourself away.” 

I had only met the brother once and my recol- 
lection of him was of a good looking, rather 
spoilt young man. He had been brought up 
entirely in the States by the Long Island uncle 
whose great fortune he had inherited. 

‘‘You’ll be quite safe up here for the pres- 
ent,” Monica went on. “You’ll sleep in the 
little room otf Gerry’s and I’ll have your meals 
served there too. After I have found out from 
the General how things stand, we’ll decide 
what’s to be done next.” 

“I’ll be very wary with Master Gerry,” I 
said. “But, Monica, though he has only seen 
me once, he knows Francis pretty well and we 
are rather alike. Do you think he’ll recognize 
me?” 

“Why, Desmond, it’s years since he saw you. 
And you’re not much like Francis with your 
moustache olf. If you’re careful, it’ll be all 
right! It isn’t for long, either. Now we’ll go 
in. Come along.” 

As we entered, a petulant voice cried: 

“Is that you, Monica? Say, am I to be left 
alone all the morning?” 

“Gerry, dear,” answered Monica very sweet- 
ly, “I’ve been engaging someone to look after 


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED i8i 

you a bit. Come here, Meyer! This is Fred- 
erick Meyer, Gerry ! ’ ’ 

I should never have recognized the handsome, 
rather indolent youth I had met in London in 
the pale man with features drawn with pain 
who gazed frowningly at me from the bed. 

‘‘Who is he? TVhere did you get him from? 
Does he know German?” 

He shot a string of questions at Monica, who 
answered them in her sweet, patient way. 

He was apparently satisfied, for, when Mon- 
ica presently got up to leave us, he threw me an 
armful of German papers and bade me read to 
him. 

I had not sat with him for ten minutes before 
I realized what an impossible creature the man 
was. Nothing I could do was right. Now he 
didn’t want to hear the war news, then it was 
the report of the Reichstag debate that bored 
him, now I didn’t read loud enough, then my 
voice jarred on him. Finally, he snatched the 
paper out of my hand. 

“I can’t understand half you say,” he cried 
in accents shrill with irritability; “you mouth 
and mumble like an Englishman. You say you 
are an American?” 

“Yes, sir,” I answered meekly, “but I re- 
sided for many years in England.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re not there now. 


18 ^ THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


Those English are plumb crazy. They’ll never 
whip Germany, not if they try for a century. 
Why, look what this country has done in this 
war! Nothing can stand against her! It’s or- 
ganization, that’s what it is! The Germans 
lead the world. Take their doctors! I have 
been to every specialist in America about my 
back and paid them thousands of dollars. And 
what good did they do me? Not a thing. I 
come to Germany, they charge me a quarter of 
the fees, and I feel a different man already. 
Before tackling the Germans, the English. ...” 

Thus he ran on. I knew the type well, the 
American who is hypnotized by German effi- 
ciency and thoroughness so completely that he 
does not see the reverse side of the medal. 

He exhausted himself on the topic at last and 
bade me read to him again. 

‘‘Read about the affair at the Hotel Es- 
planade last night,” he commanded. 

I had kept an eye open for this very item but, 
as Monica had said, the papers contained no 
hint of it. I wondered how Gerry knew about 
it. Monica would not have told him. 

“WTiat affair do you mean?” I said. 
“There is nothing about it in the papers.” 

“Of course there is, you fool. WEat is the 
use of my hiring you to read the papers to me 
if you can’t find news that’s spread all over 


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED 183 

the place? It’s no use giving me the paper . . . 
you know I can’t read it! Here, Josef will 
know!” 

A man-servant had come noiselessly into the 
room with some clothes. 

Gerry turned to him. 

“Josef, where did you see that story you 
were telling me about an English spy assaulting 
a man at the Esplanade last night?” 

“Dot ain’t in de paper, sir. I haf heard dis 
from de chauffeur of de Biedermanns next door. 
He wass at de hotel himself wid hiss shentle- 
man lars’ night at de dance. Dey won’t put 
dat in no paper, sir.” 

And the man chuckled. 

I felt none too comfortable during all this and 
was glad to be told to read on and be damned. 

I read to the young American all the morn- 
ing. He went on exactly like a very badly 
brought up child. He was fretful and quarrel- 
some and sometimes abusive, and I had some 
difficulty in keeping my temper. He con- 
tinually recurred to my English accent and 
jeered so offensively and so pointedly at what 
he called “your English friends” that I began 
to believe there was some purpose behind his 
attitude. But it was only part of his invalid’s 
fractiousness, for when the valet, Josef, ap- 
peared with the luncheon tray, the American 


J84 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

seemed anxious to make amends for his be- 
havior. 

‘‘I’m afraid I’m a bit trying at times, Meyer,” 
he said with a pleasant smile. “But you’re a 
good fellow. Go and have your lunch. You 
needn’t come back till four : I always sleep after 
luncheon. Here, have a cigar!” 

I took the cigar with all humility as beseemed 
my role and followed the valet into an adjoin- 
ing room, where the table was laid for me. I 
am keenly sensitive to outside influences, and I 
left instinctively distrustful of the man Josef. 

I expect he resented my intrusion into a 
sphere where his influence had probably been 
supreme and where he had doubtless managed 
to secure a good harvest of pickings. 

He left me to my luncheon and went away. 
After an excellent lunch, washed down by 
some first-rate claret, I was enjoying my cigar 
over a book when J osef reappeared again. 

“The Frau Grafin will see you downstairs!” 
he said. 

Monica received me in a moming-room (the 
apartment was on two floors). She was very 
much agitated and had lost all her habitual 
calm. 

“ Des, ” she said, ‘ ‘ von Boden has been here ! ” . 

“Well!” I replied eagerly. 

“I wasn’t very successful,” she went on “I’m 


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED 183 

in deep water, Des, and that ’s the truth. I have 
never seen the old General as he was to-day. 
He’s a frightful bully and tyrant, but even his 
worst enemy never accused him of cowardice. 
But, Des, to-day the man was cowed. He 
seemed to he in terror of his life and I had the 
greatest difficulty in making him say anything 
at all about your affair. 

made a joking allusion to the escapade at 
the hotel last night and he said : 

‘‘ ‘Yesterday may prove the ruin of not only 
my career but that of my son’s also. Yester- 
day gained for me as an enemy. Madam, a man 
whom it spells ruin, perhaps death, to offend.’ 

“ ‘You mean the Emperor?’ I asked. 

“ ‘The Emperor!” he said. ‘Oh! of course, 
he’s furious. No, I was not speaking of the 
Emperor ! ’ 

“Then he changed the subject and it took me 
all my tact to get back to it. I asked him if 
they had caught the author of the attack at the 
Esplanade. He said, no, hut it was only a ques- 
tion of time : the fellow couldn’t escape. I said 
I supposed they would offer a reward and pub- 
lish a description of the assailant all over the 
country. He told me they would do nothing of 
the sort. 

“ ‘The public will hear nothing about the 
affair,’ he said, ‘and if you will take my advice, 


186 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


Countess, you will forget all about it. In any 
case, the Princess Eadolin is writing to all her 
guests at the ball last night to urge them strong- 
ly to say nothing about the incident. The em- 
ployees of the hotel will keep their mouths shut. 
The interests at stake forbid that there should 
be any attempt whatsoever made in public to 
throw light on the affair. ’ 

‘‘That is all I could get out of him. But I 
have something further to tell you. The 
General went away immediately after lunch. 
Almost as soon as he had gone I was called to 
the telephone. Dr. Henninger was there : he is 
the head of the Political Police, you know. He 
gave me the same advice as the General, name** 
ly, to forget all about what occurred at the Es- 
planade last night. And then the Princess Ea- 
dolin rang me up to say the same thing. She 
seemed very frightened: she was quite tearful. 
Someone evidently had scared her badly. 

“Monica,’’ I said, “it’s quite clear I can’t 
stay here. My dear girl, if I am discovered in 
your house, there is no knowing what trouble 
may not come upon you.” 

“If there is any risk,” she answered, “it’s a 
risk I am ready to take. You have nowhere to 
go to in Berlin, and if you are caught outside 
they might find out where you had been hiding 
and then we should be as badly off as before. 


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED 187 

No, you stay right on here, and maybe in a day 
or two I can get you away. IVe been thinking 
something out. 

“Karl has a place near the Dutch frontier, 
Schloss Bellevue, it is called, close to Cleves. 
It’s an old place and has been in the family for 
generations. Karl, however, only uses it as a 
shooting-box : we had big shoots up there every 
autumn before the war. 

“There has been no shooting there for two 
years now and the place is overstocked with 
game. The Government has been appealing to 
people with shooting preserves to kill their game 
and put it on the market, so I had arranged to 
go up to Bellevue this month and see the agent 
about this. I thought if I could prevail on Ger- 
ry to come with me, you could accompany him 
and you might get across the Dutch frontier 
from there. It’s only about fifteen miles away 
from the Castle. If I can get a move on Gerry, 
there is no reason why we shouldn’t go away in 
a day or two. In the meantime you’ll be quite 
safe here.” 

I told her I must think it over: she seemed 
to be risking too much. But I think my mind 
was already made up. I could not bring des- 
truction on this faithful friend. 

Then I went upstairs again to Gerry, who was 
in as vile a temper as before. His lunch had 


iS8 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


disagreed with him: he hadn’t slept: the room 
was not hot enough . . . these were a few of 
the complaints he showered at me as soon as 
I appeared. He was in his most impish and 
malicious mood. He sent me running hither 
and thither : he gave me an order and withdrew 
it in the same breath : my complacency seemed 
to irritate him, to encourage him to provoke me. 

At last he came back to his old sore subject, 
my English accent. 

‘ ^ I guess our good American is too homely for | 
a fine English gentleman like you,” he said, ^ 
‘‘but I believe you’ll as lief speak as you were | 
taught before you’re through with this city. An | 
English accent is not healthy in Berlin at pres- li 

ent. Mister Meyer, sir, and you’d best learn to I 

talk like the rest of us if you want to keep on | 

staying in this house. | 

“I’m in no state to be worried just now and | 

I’ve no notion of having the police in here be- | 

cause some of their dam’ plain-clothes men have | 
heard mv attendant saying ‘charnce’ and 
‘darnce’ like any Britisher — especially with this 
English spy running round loose. By the way, ’ 
you’ll have to be registered? Has my sister 
seen about it yet?” ! 

I said she was attending to it. 

“I want to know if she’s done it. I’m a help- 
less cripple and I can’t get a thing done for me. 


THE GENERAL IS WORRIED i8p 

Have you given her your papers ? Yes, or no T ’ 

This was a bad fix. With all the persistence 
of the invalid, the man was harping on his latest 
whim. 

So I lied. The Countess had my papers, I 
said. 

Instantly he rang the bell and demanded 
Monica and had fretted himself into a fine state 
by the time she appeared. 

‘‘What’s this I hear, Monica?” he cried in his 
high-pitched, querulous voice. “Hasn’t Meyer 
been registered with the police yet?” 

“I’m going to see to it myself in the morn- 
ing, Gerry,” she said. 

‘ ‘ In the morning. In the morning ! ” he cried, 
throwing up his hands. “Good God, how can 
you be so shiftless ? A law is a law. The man’s 
papers must be sent in to-day . . . this instant.” 

Monica looked appealingly at me. 

“I’m afraid I ’m to blame, sir, ’ ’ I said. ‘ ‘ The 
fact is, my passport is not quite in order and I 
shall have to take it to the embassy before I 
send it to the police.” 

Then I saw Josef standing by the bed, a salver 
in his hand. 

“Zom letters, sir,” he said to Gerry. 

I wondered how long he had been in the room. 

Gerry waved the letters aside and burst into 
a regular screaming fit. He wouldn’t have things 


ipo THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


done that way in the house; he wouldn’t have 
unkown foreigners brought in, with the city 
thick with spies — especially people with an Eng- 
lish accent — ^his nerves wouldn’t stand it: Mon- 
ica ought to know better, and so on and so forth. 
The long and the short of it was that I Ijvas 
ordered to produce my passport immediately. 
Monica was to ring up the embassy to ask them 
to stretch a point and see to it out of office 
hours, then Josef should take me round to the 
police. 

I don’t know how we got out of that room. 
It was Monica, with her sweet womanly tact, 
who managed it. I believe the madman even 
demanded to see my passport, but Monica 
scraped me through that trap as well. 

I had left my hat and coat in the entrance hall 
downstairs. I put on my coat, then went to 
Monica in the morning-room. 

There was much she wanted to say — could 
see it in her eyes — ^but I think she gathered from 
my face what I was going to do, so she said 
nothing. 

At the door I said aloud, for the benefit of 
Josef, who was on the stairs: 

‘‘Very good, my lady. I will come straight 
back from the embassy and then go with Josef 
to the police.” 

The next moment I was adrift in Berlin. 


CHAPTER Xm 


I FIND ACHIULES IN HIS TENT 

O UTSIDE darkness had fallen. I had a 
vague suspicion that the house might he 
watched, but I found the Bendler- 
Strasse quite undisturbed. It ran its quiet, aris- 
tocratic length to the tangle of bare branches 
marking the Tiergarten-Strasse with not so 
much as a dog to strike terror into the heart of 
the amateur spy. Even in the Tiergarten- 
Strasse, where the Jewish millionaires live, 
there was little traffic and few people about, and 
I felt singularly unromantic as I walked briskly 
along the clean pavements towards Unter den 
Linden. 

Once more the original object of my journey 
into Germany stood clearly before me. An ex- 
traordinary series of adventures had deflected 
me from my course, but never from my purpose. 
I realized that I should never feel happy in my 
mind again if I left Germany without being as- 


IQ2 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

sured as to my brother’s fate. And now I was 
on the threshold either of a great discovery or 
of an overwhelming disappointment. 

For the street called In den Zelten was my 
next objective. I knew I might be on the wrong 
track altogether in my interpretation of what I 
was pleased to term in my mind the message 
from Francis. If I had read it falsely — ^if, per- 
haps, it were not from him at all — then all the 
hopes I had bnilt on this mad dash into the en- 
emy’s country would collapse like a house of 
cards. Then, indeed, I should be in a sorry pass. 

But my luck was in, I felt. Hitherto, I had 
triumphed over all difficulties. I would trust 
in my destiny to the last. 

I had taken the precaution of turning up my 
overcoat collar and of pulling my hat well down 
over my eyes, but no one troubled me. I re- 
flected that only Clubfoot and Schmalz were in 
a position to recognize me and that, if I steered 
clear of places like hotels and restaurants and 
railway stations, where criminals always seem 
to be caught, I might continue to enjoy com- 
parative immunity. But the trouble was the 
passport question. That reminded me. 

I must get rid of Semlin’s passport. As I 
walked along I tore it into tiny pieces, dropping 
each fragment at a good interval from the other. 
It cost me something to do it, for a passport is 


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT jpj 

always useful to flash in the eyes of the ignor- 
ant. But this passport was dangerous. It might 
denounce me to a man who would not otherwise 
recognize me. 

I had some difiiculty in finding In den Zelten. 
I had to ask the way, once of a postman and 
once of a wounded soldier who was limping 
along with crutches. Finally, I found it, a 
narrowish street running off a corner of the 
great square in front of the Eeichstag. No. 2 
was the second house on the right. 

I had no plan. Nevertheless, I walked boldly 
upstairs. There was but one flat on each floor. 
At the third story I halted, rather out of breath, 
in front of a door with a small brass plate in- 
scribed with the name ‘‘Eugen Kore.’^ I rang 
the bell boldly. 

An elderly man-servant opened the door. 

‘‘Is Herr Eugen Kore at homeT’ I asked. 

The man looked at me suspiciously. 

“Has the gentleman an appointment T’ he 
said. 

“No,’’ I replied. 

“Then the Herr will not receive the gentle- 
man,” came the answer, and the man made as 
though to close the door. 

I had an inspiration. 

“A moment!” I cried, and I added the word 
‘‘Achilles” in a low voice. 


194 the man with THE CLUBFOOT ; 

The servant opened the door wide to me. 

‘‘Why didnT you say that at once?’^ he said. 
“Please step in. I will see if the Herr can re- 
ceive you. ’ ^ 

He led the way through a hall into a sitting- 
room and left me there. The place was a per- 
fect museum of art treasures, old Dutch and 
Italian masters on the walls, some splendid Flor- 
entine chests, a fine old dresser loaded with 
ancient pewter. On a mantelshelf was an extra- 
ordinary collection of old keys, each with its 
label. ‘.‘Key of the fortress of Spandau, 1715.^^ 
“Key of the Postern Gate of the Pasha’s Palace ^ 
at Belgrade, 1810,” “House Key from Nurem- 
berg, 1567,” were some of the descriptions I 
read. 

Then a voice behind me said : 

“Ah! you admire my little treasures I” 

Turning, I saw a short, stout man, of a marked 
Jewish appearance, with a bald head, a fat nose, 
little beady eyes and a large waist. 

“Eugen Kore!” he introduced himself with ; 
a bow. 

“Meyer !” I replied, in the German fashion. ' 

“And what can we do for Herr . . . Meyer?” ■ 
he asked in oily tones, pausing just long enough 
before he pronounced the name I gave to let me 
see that he believed it to be a pseudonym. j, 

“I believe you know a friend of mine, whose y 


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT ip5 

address I am anxious to find/’ I said. 

‘‘Ah!’’ sighed the little Jew, “a man of af- 
fairs like myself meets so many people that he 
may be pardoned . . . What did you say his 
name was, this friend of yours ? ’ ’ 

I thought I would try the effect of the name 
“Eichenholz” upon this enigmatic creature. 

“Eichenholz? Eichenholz?” Kore repeated. 
“I seem to know the name ... it seems familiar 
. . . now let me see again. . . . Eichenholz, 
Eichenholz. ...” 

While he was speaking he unlocked one of the 
oak cabinets and a safe came to view. Opening 
this, he brought out a ledger and ran his finger 
down the names. Then he shut the book, re- 
placed it, locked the safe and the cabinet, and 
turned to me again. 

“Yes,” he said, “I know the name.” 

His reticence was disconcerting. 

“Can you tell me where I can find him?” I 
asked. 

“Yes,” was the reply. 

I was getting a trifle nettled. 

“Well, where?” I queried. 

“This is all very well, young Sir,” said the 
Jew. “You come in here from nowhere, you 
introduce yourself as Meyer ; you ask me ‘Who?’ 
and ‘What?’ and ‘Where?’— questions that, 
mark you, in my business, may have valuable 


ipd THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


answers. We private enquiry agents must live^ 
my dear sir, we must eat and drink like other 
men, and these are hard times, very hard times. 
I will ask you a question if I may. Meyer? 
Who is Meyer? Everybody in this country is 
called Meyer!’’ 

I smiled at this bizarre speech. 

^‘This Eichenholz, now,” I said, . sup- 
posing he were my brother. ’ ’ 

‘‘He might congratulate himself,” Kore said^ 
blinking his little lizard eyes. 

“And he sent me word to call and see you 
to find out his whereabouts. You seem to like 
riddles, Herr Kore ... I will read you one!’ 

And I read him the message from Francis 
!. . . all but the first two lines. 

The little J ew beamed with delight. 

“Ach! that is bright!” he cried, “oi, oi, oi,. 
but he is smart, this Herr Eichenholz! Who’d 
have thought of that? Brilliant, brilliant!” 

“As you say, Herr Kore, enquiry agents must 
live, and I am quite prepared to pay for the in- 
formation I require. ...” 

I pulled out my portfolio as I spoke. 

“The matter is quite simple,” Kore replied. 
“It is already arranged. The charge is five 
hundred marks. My client said to me the last 
time I saw him, ‘Kore,’ he said, ‘if one should 
come asking news of me you will give him the 


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT 19/ 

word and he will pay you five hundred marks. ’ ’ ’ 

^‘The word?’’ I said. 

‘‘The word,” he repeated. 

“You must take Dutch money, ’ ’ I said. ‘ ‘ Here 
you are . . . work it out in gulden . . . and 
I’ll pay!” 

He manipulated a stump of pencil on a writ- 
ing block and I paid him his money. 

Then he said : 

“Boonekamp !” 

‘ ‘ Boonekamp ? ” I echoed stupidly. 

“That’s the word,” the little Jew chuckled, 
laughing at my dumbfounded expression, “and, 
if you want to know, I understand it as little as 
you do.” 

“But . . . Boonekamp,” I repeated. “Is it 
a man’s name, a place? It sounds Dutch. Have 
you no idea? . . . come, I’m ready to pay.” 

“Perhaps ...” the Jew began. 

“What? Perhaps what?” I exclaimed im- 
patiently. 

“Possibly ...” 

“Out with it, man!” I cried, “and say what 
you mean.” 

“Perhaps, if I could render to the gentleman 
the service I rendered to his brother, I might be 
able to throw light ...” 

“What service did you render to my broth- 
er?” I demanded hastily. “I’m in the dark.” 


ig8 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

‘‘Has the gentleman no little difficulty per- 
haps ? . . . about his military service, about his 
papers? The gentleman is young and strong 
. . . has he been to the front? Was life irk- 
some there? Did he ever long for the sweets of 
home life? Did he never envy those who have 
been medically rejected? The rich men’s sons, 
perhaps, with clever fathers who know how to 
get what they want?” 

His little eyes bored into mine like gimlets. 

I began to understand. 

“And if I had?” 

“Then all old Kore can say is that the gentle- 
man has come to the right shop, as his gracious 
brother did. How can we serve the gentleman 
now? What are his requirements? It is a dif- 
ficult, a dangerous business. It costs money, 
much money, but it can be arranged ... it can 
be arranged.” 

“But if you do for me what you did for my 
brother,” I said, “I don’t see how that helps to 
explain this word, this clue to his address !” 

“My dear sir, I am as much in the dark as 
you are yourself about the significance of this 
word. But I can tell you this, your brother, 
thanks to my intervention, found himself placed 
in a situation in which he might well have come 
across this word. ...” 

“Well?” I said impatiently. 


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT ipp 

‘^Well, if we obliged the gentleman as we 
obliged his brother, the gentleman might be 
taken where his brother was taken, the gentle- 
man is young and smart, he might perhaps find 
a clue . . . 

‘‘Stop talking riddles, for Heaven’s sake!” 
I cried in exasperation, “and answer my ques- 
tions plainly. First, what did you do for my 
brother?” 

“Your brother had deserted from the front — ■ 
that is the most difficult class of business we 
have to deal with — ^we procured him a permis de 
sejour for fifteen days and a post in a safe place 
where no enquiries would be made after him.” 

“And then?” I cried, trembling with curios- 
ity. 

The Jew shrugged his shoulders, waving his 
hands to and fro in the air. 

‘ ‘ Then he disappeared. I saw him a few days 
before he went, and he gave me the instructions 
I have repeated to you for anybody who should 
come asking for him.” 

“But didn’t he tell you where he was going?” 

“He didn’t even tell me he was going, Herr. 
He just vanished.” 

“When was this?” 

“Somewhere about the first week in July 
... it was the week of the bad news from 
France.” 


i>C0 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


The message was dated July 1st, I remem- 
bered. 

have a good set of Swedish papers,’’ the 
Jew continued, ‘‘very respectable timber mer- 
chant . . . with those one could live in the best 
hotels and no one say a word. Or Hungarian 
papers, a party rejected medically . . . very i 
safe those, but perhaps the gentleman doesn’t ‘ i 
speak Hungarian. That would be essential.” ; 

“I am in the same case as my brother,” I j 

said, “I must disappear.” ^ 

“Not a deserter, Herr?” The Jew cringed ; 
at the word. I 

“Yes,” I said. “After all, why not?” 1 

“I daren’t do this kind of business any more, j 
my dear sir, I really daren’t ! They are making j 
it too dangerous. ’ ’ ' 

“Come, come!” I said, “you were boasting | 
just now that you could smooth out any difficul- j 
ties. You can produce me a very satisfactory 1 
passport from somewhere, I am sure ! ’ ’ 

“Passport! Out of the question, my dear 
sir! Let once one of my passports go wrong 
and I am ruined. Oh, no ! no passports where 
deserters are concerned! I don’t like the busi- 
ness . . .it’s not safe ! At the beginning of the 
war . . .ah! that was different! Oi, oi, but 
they ran from the Yser and from Ypres ! Oi, oi, 
and from Verdun ! But now the police are more 


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT 30i 


watchful. No! It is not worth it! It would 
cost you too much money, besides.’’ 

I thought the miserable cur was trying to 
raise the price on me, but I was mistaken. He 
was frightened : the business was genuinely dis- 
tasteful to him. 

I tried, as a final attempt to persuade him, an 
old trick: I showed him my money. He wav- 
ered at once, and, after many objections, pro- 
testing to the last, he left the room. He re- 
turned with a handful of filthy papers. 

‘ H oughtn’t to do it ; I know I shall rue it ; but 
you have overpersuaded me and I liked Herr 
Eichenholz, a noble gentleman and free with his 
money — see here, the papers of a waiter, Julius 
Zimmermann, called up with the Landwehr but 
discharged medically unfit, military pay-book 
and per mis de sejour for fifteen days. These 
papers are only a guarantee in case you come 
across the police: no questions will be asked 
where I shall send you.” 

‘ ‘ But a fifteen days ’ permit ! ” I said. “What 
am I to do at the end of that time?” 

^ ‘ Leave it to me, ’ ’ Kore said craftily. ‘ ‘ I will 
get it renewed for you. It will be all right ! ’ ’ 

“But in the meantime . . .” I objected. 

“I place you as waiter with a friend of mine 
who is kind to poor fellows like yourself. Your 
brother was with him.” 


^0^ THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


‘‘But I want to be free to move around.’^ 

“Impossible/^ the Jew answered firmly. 
“You must get into your part and live quietly 
in seclusion until the enquiries after you have 
abated. Then we may see as to what is next to 
be done. There you are, a fine set of papers and 
a safe, comfortable life far away from the 
trenches — all snug and secure — cheap (in spite 
of the danger to me), because you are a lad of 
spirit and I liked your brother . . . ten thousand 
marks!’’ 

I breathed again. Once we had reached the 
haggling stage, I knew the papers would be mine 
all right. With Semlin’s money and my own I 
found I had about £550, but I had no intention 
of paying out £500 straight away. So I beat the 
fellow down unmercifully and finally secured the 
lot for 3600 marks — £180. 

But, even after I had paid the fellow his mon- 
ey, I was not done with him. He had his eye 
on his perquisites. 

“Your clothes will never do,” he said; “such 
richness of apparel, such fine stuff — ^we must 
give you others. ” He rang the bell. 

The old man-servant appeared. 

“A waiter’s suit — for the Linien-Strasse!” 
he said. 

Then he led me into a bedroom where a worn 
suit of German shoddy was spread out on a 


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT 203 

sofa. He made me change into it, and then 
handed me a threadbare green overcoat and a 
greasy green felt hat. 

‘ ‘ So ! ’ ’ he said. ‘ ^ Now, if yon don’t shave for 
a day or two, you will look the part to the life !” 
— a remark which, while encouraging, was hard- 
ly complimentary. 

He gave me a muffler to tie round my neck 
and lower part of my face and, with that greasy 
hat pulled down over my eyes and in those worn 
and shrunken clothes, I must say I looked a 
pretty villainous person, the very antithesis of 
the sleek, well-dressed young fellow that had 
entered the flat half an hour before. 

‘‘Now, Julius,” said Kore humorously, 
“come, my lad, and we will seek out together 
the good situation I have found for you.” 

A horse-cab was at the door and we entered it 
together. The Jew chatted pleasantly as we 
rattled through the darkness. He compliment- 
ed me on my ready wit in deciphering Francis’ 
message. 

“How do you like my idea?” he said, 
“ ‘Achilles in his Tent’ . . . that is the device 
of the hidden part of my business — ^you observe 
the parallel, do you not? Achilles holding him- 
self aloof from the army and young men like 
yourself who prefer the gentle pursuits of peace 
to the sterner profession of war! Clients of 


204 the man with the CLUBFOOT 

mine who have enjoyed a classical education 
have thought very highly of the humor of my 
device.’’ 

The cab dropped us at the comer of the Fried- 
rich-Strasse, which was ablaze with light from 
end to end, and the Linien-Strasse, a narrow, 
squalid thoroughfare of dirty houses and mean 
shops. The street was all but deserted at that 
hour save for an occasional policeman, but from 
cellars with steps leading down from the streets 
came the jingle of automatic pianos and bursts 
of merriment to show that the Linien-Strasse 
was by no means asleep. 

Before one of these cellar entrances the Jew 
stopped. At the foot of the steep staircase 
leading down from the street was a glazed door, 
its panels all glistening with moisture from the 
heated atmosphere within. Kore led the way 
down, I following. 

A nauseous wave of hot air, mingled with rank 
tobacco smoke, smote us full as we opened the 
door. At first I could see nothing except a very 
fat man, against a dense curtain of smoke, sit- 
ting at a table before an enormous glass goblet 
of beer. Then, as the haze drifted before the 
draught, I distinguished the outline of a long, 
low-ceilinged room, with small tables set along 
either side and a little bar, presided over by a 
tawdry female with chemically tinted hair, at 


I FIND ACHILLES IN HIS TENT ^05 


the end. Most of the tables were occupied, and 
there was almost as much noise as smoke in the 
place. 

A woman’s voice screamed: ‘‘Shut the door, 
can’t you, I’m freezing!” I obeyed and, fol- 
lowing Kore to a table, sat down. A man in 
his shirt-sleeves, who was pulling beer at the 
bar, left his beer-engine and, coming across the 
room to Kore, greeted him cordially, and asked 
him what we would take. 

Kore nudged me with his elbow. 

“We’ll take a Boonekamp each, Haase,” he 

said. 


CHAPTER XIV 


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE 's 

K ORE presently retired to an inner room 
with the man in shirt-sleeves, whom I 
judged to be the landlord, and in a 
little the flaxen-haired lady at the bar beckoned 
me over and bade me join them. 

^‘This is Julius Zimmermann, the young man 
I have spoken of,’’ said the Jew; then turning 
to me: 

‘‘Herr Haase is willing to take you on as 
waiter here on my recommendation, Julius. See 
that you do not make me repent of my kind- 
ness!” 

Here the man in shirt-sleeves, a great, fat fel- 
low with a bullet head and a huge double chin, 
chuckled loudly. 

‘ ‘ Kolossal ! ” he cried. ‘ ‘ Herr Kore loves his 
joke! Ausgezeichnet!” And he wagged his 
head roguishly at me. 

On that Kore took his leave, promising to look 
206 


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE’S 207 

in and see how I was faring in a few days’ time. 
The landlord opened a low door in the corner 
and revealed a kind of large cupboard, window- 
less and horribly stale and stuffy, where there 
were two unsavory-looking beds. 

‘‘You will sleep here with Otto,” said the 
landlord. Pointing to a dirty white apron lying 
on one of the beds, he bade me take off my over- 
coat and jacket and put it on. 

“It was Johann’s,” he said, “but Johann 
won’t want it any more. A good lad, Johann, 
but rash. I always said he would come to a bad 
end.” And he laughed noisily. 

“You can go and help with the waiting now,” 
he went on. ‘ ‘ Otto will show you what to do ! ” 

Amd so I found myself, within twenty-four 
hours, spy, male nurse and waiter in turn. 

I am loth to dwell on the degradation of the 
days that followed. That cellar tavern was a 
foul sink of iniquity, and in serving the dregs 
of humanity that gathered nightly there I felt 
I had indeed sunk to the lowest depths. The 
place was a regular thieves’ kitchen . . . what 
is called in the hideous Yiddish jargon that is 
the criminal slang of modem Germany a 
“Kaschemme.” Never in my life have I seen 
such brutish faces as those that leered at me 
nightly through the smoke haze as I shuffled 
from table to table in my mean German clothes. 


2 o 8 the man with the CLUBFOOT 


Gallows’ birds, sneak thieves, receivers, bullies, 
prostitutes and harpies of every description 
came together every evening in Herr Haase’s 
beer-cellar. Many of the men wore the soiled 
and faded field-gray of the soldier back from the 
front, and in looking at their sordid, vulpine 
faces, inflamed with drink, I felt I could fathom 
the very soul of Belgium’s misery. 

The conversation was all of crime and deeds of 
violence. The men back from the front told 
gloatingly of rapine and feastings in lonely 
Belgian villages or dwelt ghoulishly on the hor- 
rors of the battlefield, the mounds of decaying 
corpses, the ghastly mutilations they had seen 
on the dead. There were tales, too, of ‘‘ven- 
geance” wreaked on “the treacherous English.” 
One story, in particular, of the fate of a Scot- 
tish sergeant . . . “der Hochlander” they 
called him in this oft-told tale . . . still makes 
me quiver with impotent rage when I think of it. 

One evening the name of the Hotel Esplan- 
ade caught my ear. I approached the table and 
found two flashily dressed bullies and a be- 
draggled drab from the streets talking in ad- 
miration of my exploit. 

“Clubfoot met his match that time,” the 
woman cried. ‘ ‘ The dirty dog ! But why didn ’t 
this English spy make a job of it and kill the 
scum? Pah!” 


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE’S 3op 

And she spat elegantly into the sawdust on 
the floor. 

‘‘I wouldn’t be in that fellow’s shoes for some- 
thing,” muttered one of the men. ‘^No one ever 
had the better of Clubfoot yet. Do you remem- 
ber Meinhardt, Franz ? He tried to cheat Club- 
foot, and we know what happened to him!” 

‘‘They’re raking the whole city for this Eng- 
lishman,” answered the other man. “Vogel, 
who works for Section Seven, you know the man 
I mean, was telling me. They’ve done every ho- 
tel in Berlin and the suburbs, but they haven’t 
found him. They raided Bauer’s in the Favori- 
ten-Strasse last night. The Englishman wasn’t 
there, but they got three or four others they were 
looking for — Fritz and another deserter includ- 
ed. I was nearly there myself I” 

I was always hearing references of this kind 
to my exploit. I was never spoken of except in 
terms of admiration, but the name of Clubfoot — 
der Stelze — excited only execration and terror. 

I lived in daily fear of a raid at Haase’s. Why 
the place had escaped so long, with all that riff- 
ratf assembled there nightly, I couldn’t imagine. 
It was one of those defects in German organiza- 
tion which puzzle the best of us at times. In the 
meantime, I was powerless to escape. The first 
thing Haase had done was to take away my pa- 
pers — to send them to the police, as he explained 


210 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


— ^but he never gave them back, and when I asked 
for them he put me off with an excuse. 

I was a virtual prisoner in the place. On my 
feet from morning till night, I had indeed few 
opportunities for going out ; but once, during a 
slack time in the afternoon, when I broached the 
subject to the landlord, he refused harshly to let 
me out of his sight. 

‘^The street is not healthy for you just now. 
You would be a danger to yourself and to all of 
us!’’ he said. 

My life in that foul den was a burden to me. 
The living conditions were unspeakable. Otto, 
a pale and ill-tempered consumptive, compelled, 
like me, to rise in the darkness of the dawn, 
never washed, and his companionship in the 
stuffy hole where we slept was offensive beyond 
belief. He openly jeered at my early morning 
journeys out to a narrow, stinking court, where 
I exulted in the ice-cold water from the pump. 
And the food ! It was only when I saw the mean 
victuals — ^the coarse and often tainted horse- 
flesh, the unappetizing war-bread, the coffee sub- 
stitute, and the rest — that I realized how Ger- 
many was suffering, though only through her 
poor as yet, from the British blockade. That 
thought used to help to overcome the nausea 
with which I sat down to eat. 

Domestic life at Haase’s was a hell upon 


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE’S 211 


earth. Haase himself was a drunken bully, who 
made advances to every woman he met, and 
whose complicated intrigues with the feminine 
portion of his clientele led to frequent scenes 
with the fair-haired Hebe who presided at the 
bar and over his household. It was she and 
Otto who fared daily forth to take their places 
in the long queues that waited for hours with 
food cards outside the provision shops. 

These trips seemed to tell upon her temper, 
which would flash out wrathfully at meal-times, 
when Haase began his inevitable grumbling 
about the food. As Otto took a malicious 
delight in these family scenes, I was frequently 
called upon to assume the role of peace-maker. 
More than once I intervened to save Madame 
from the violence she had called down upon her- 
self by the sharpness of her tongue. She was a 
poor, faded creature, and the tragedy of it all 
was that she was in love with this degraded 
bully. She was grateful to me for my good of- 
fices, I think, for, though she hardly ever ad- 
dressed me, her manner was always friendly. 

These days of dreary squalor would have been 
unbearable if it had not been for my elucidation 
of the word Boonekamp, which was said to hold 
the clue to my brother's address. On the wall in 
the cubby-hole where I slept was a tattered 
advertisement card of this aperitif — for such is 


212 TKE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


the preparation — ^proclaiming it to be ‘^Ger- 
many ’s Best Cordial. ’ ’ As I undressed at night, 
I often used to stare at this placard, wondering 
what connection Boonekamp could possibly 
have with my brother. I determined to take the 
first opportunity of examining the card itself. 
One morning, while Otto was out in the queue at 
the butcher ^s, I slipped away from the cellar to 
our sleeping-place and, lighting my candle, took 
down the card and examined it closely. It was 
perfectly plain, red letters on a green back- 
ground in front, white at the back. 

As I was replacing the card on the nail I saw 
some writing in pencil on the wall where the 
card had hung. My heart seemed to stand still 
with the joy of my discovery. For the writing 
was in my brother’s neat, artistic hand, the 
words were English, and, best of all, my broth- 
er’s initials were attached. This is what I read : 

( Facsimile. ) 5.7.16. 

‘‘You will find me at the Cafe Regina, Diissel- 
dorf.— F. 0.” 

After that I felt I could bear with everything. 
The message awakened hope that was fast dying 
in my heart. At least on July 5th, Francis was 
alive. To that fact I clung as to a sheet-anchor. 
It gave me courage for the hardest part of all 


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE^S 213 

my experiences in Germany, those long days ot 
waiting in that den of thieves. For I knew I 
must be patient. Presently, I hoped, I might 
extract my papers from Haase or persuade 
Kore, when he came back to see me, to give mo 
a permit that would enable me to get to Diissel- 
dorf. But the term of my permit was fast run- 
ning out and the Jew never came. 

There were often moments when I longed to 
ask Haase or one of the others about the time 
my brother had served in that place. But I 
feared to draw attention to myself. No one 
asked any questions of me (questions as to per- 
sonal antecedents were discouraged at Haase ^s), 
and, as long as I remained the unpaid, useful 
drudge I felt that my desire for obscurity would 
be respected. Desultory questions about my 
predecessors elicited no information about 
Francis. The Haase establishment seemed to 
have had a succession of vague and shadowy re- 
tainers. 

Only about Johann, whose apron I wore, did 
Otto become communicative. 

‘‘A stupid fellow!’’ he declared. ‘‘He was 
well off here. Haase liked him, the customers 
liked him, especially the ladies. But he must 
fall in love with Frau Hedwig (the lady at the 
bar), then he quarreled with Haase and threat- 
ened him — ^you know, about customers wno 


214 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

/iaven’t got their papers in order. The next 
time Johann went out, they arrested him. And 
he was shot at Spandau!’’ 

‘^Shot?’’ I exclaimed. ‘‘WhyU^ 

^‘As a deserter.” 

‘‘Ach! was! But he had a deserter’s papers 
in his pockets ... his own had vanished. Ach ! 
it’s a bad thing to quarrel with Haase !” 

I made a point of keeping on the right side of 
the landlord after that. By my unfailing dili- 
gence I even managed to secure his grudging 
approval, though he was always ready to fly 
into a passion at the least opportunity. 

One evening about six o’clock a young man, 
whom I had never seen among our regular cus- 
tomers, came down the stairs from the street and 
asked for Haase, who was asleep on the sofa in 
the inner room. At the sight of the youth, Frau 
Hedwig jumped off her perch behind the bar and 
vanished. She came back directly and, ignoring 
me, conducted the young man into the inner 
room, where he remained for about half an hour. 
Then he reappeared again, accompanied by Frau 
Hedwig, and went off. 

I was shocked by the change in the appearance 
of the woman. Her face was pale, her eyes red 
with weeping, and her eyes kept wandering to- 
wards the door. It was a slack time of the day 
within and the cellar was free of customers. 


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE^S 215 

“You look poorly, Frau Hedwig,’’ I said. 
“Trouble with Haase again? 

She looked up at me and shook her head, her 
eyes brimming over. A tear ran down the rouge 
on her cheek. 

‘ ‘ I must speak, ’ ’ she said. ‘ ‘ I can ’t bear this 
suspense alone. You are a kind young man. 
You are discreet. Julius, there is trouble brew- 
ing for us!” 

“What do you mean?” I asked. A forebod- 
ing of evil rose within me. 

“Kore!” she whispered. 

“Kore?” I echoed. “What of him?” 

She looked fearfully about her. 

“He was taken yesterday morning,” she said. 

“Do you mean arrested?” I exclaimed, un- 
willing to believe the staggering news. 

“They entered his apartment early in the 
morning and seized him in bed. Ach! it is 
dreadful!” And she buried her face in her 
hands. 

“But surely,” I added soothingly, though 
with an icy fear at my heart, “there is no need 
to despair. WTiat is an arrest to-day with all 
these regulations. ...” 

The woman raised her face, pallid beneath its 
paint, to mine. 

“Kore was shot at Moabit Prison this morn- 
ing, ’ ’ she said in a low voice. ‘ * That young man 


3i6 the man with the CLUBFOOT 

brought the news just now.’’ Then she added 
breathlessly, her words pouring out in a tor- 
rent: 

“You don’t know what this means to us. 
Haase had dealings with this Jew. If they have 
shot him, it is because they have found out from 
him all they want to know. That means our 
ruin, that means that Haase wiU go the same 
way as the Jew. 

‘ ‘ But Haase is stubborn, foolhardy. The mes- 
senger warned him that a raid might be expect- 
ed here at any moment. I have pleaded with 
him in vain. He believes that Kore has split ; 
he believes the police may come, but he says 
they daren’t touch him; he has been too useful 
to them : he knows too much. Ach, I am afraid ! 
I am afraid!” 

Haase’s voice sounded from the inner room. 

‘ ‘ Hedwig ! ” he called. 

The woman hastily dried her eyes and dis- 
appeared through the door. 

The coast was clear, if I wanted to escape,, 
but where could I go, without a paper or pass- 
port, a hunted man? 

The news of Kore’s arrest and execution 
haunted me. Of course, the man was in a most 
perilous trade, and had probably been playing 
the game for years. But suppose they had 


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE^S 217 

tracked me to the house in the street called In 
den Zelten. 

I crossed the room and opened the door to the 
street. I had never set foot outside since I had 
come, and, hopeless as it would he for me to 
attempt to escape, I thought I might recon- 
noitre the surroundings of the heer-ceUar for 
the event of flight. 

I lightly ran up the stairs to the street and 
nearly cannoned into a man who was lounging 
in the entrance. We both apologized, but he 
stared at me hard before he strolled on. Then 
I saw another man sauntering along on the op- 
posite side of the street. Further away, at the 
corner, two men were loitering. 

Every one of them had his eyes fixed on the 
cellar entrance at which I was standing. 

I knew they could not see my face, for the 
street was but dimly lit, and behind me was the 
dark background of the cellar stairway. I took 
a grip on my nerves and very deliberately lit a 
cigarette and smoked it, as if I had come up 
from below to get a breath of fresh air. I wait- 
ed a little while and then went down. 

I was scarcely back in the cellar when Haase 
appeared from the inner room, followed by the 
woman. He carried himself erect, and his eyes 
were shining. I didn’t like the man, but I must 


2i8 the man with the CLUBFOOT 


say lie looked game. In his hand he carried my 
papers. 

‘‘Here you are, my lad,” he said in quite a 
friendly tone, “put ’em in your pocket — ^you 
may want ’em to-night.” 

I glanced at the papers before I followed his 
advice. 

He noted my action and laughed. 

“They have told you about Johann,” he said. 
“Never fear, Julius, you and I are good 
friends.” 

The papers were those of Julius Zimmermann 
all right. 

We were having supper at one of the tables in 
the front room — ^there were only a couple of 
customers, as it was so early — ^when a man, a 
regular visitor of ours, came down the stairs 
hurriedly. He went straight over to Haase and 
spoke into his ear. 

“Mind yourself, Haase,” I heard him say. 
“Do you know who had Kore arrested and shot? 
It was Clubfoot. There is more in this than we 
know. Mind yourself and get out ! In an hour 
or so it may be too late.” 

Then he scurried away, leaving me dazed. 

“By God!” said the landlord, bringing a 
great fist down on the table so that the glasses 
rang, “they won’t touch me. Not the devil 
himself will make me leave this house 


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE’S 

before they come, if coming they are!’’ 

The woman burst into tears, while Otto 
blinked his watery eyes in terror. I sat and 
looked at my plate, my heart too full for words. 
It was bitter to have dared so much to get this 
far and then find the path blocked, as it seemed, 
by an insuperable barrier. They were after me 
all right: the mention of Clubfoot’s name, the 
swift, stern retribution that had befallen Kore, 
made that certain — and I could do nothing. That 
cellar was a cul-de-sac, a regular trap, and I 
knew that if I stirred a foot from the house I 
should fall into the hands of those men keeping 
their silent vigil in the street. 

Therefore, I must wait, as calmly as I might, 
and see what the evening would bring forth. 
Gradually the cellar filled up as people drifted 
in, but many familiar faces, I noticed, were 
missing.. Evidently the ill tidings had spread. 
Once a man looked in for a glass of beer and 
drifted out again, leaving the door open. As I 
was closing it, I heard a muffled exclamation 
and the sound of a scuffle at the head of the 
stairs. It was so quietly done that nobody be- 
low, save myself, knew what had happened. 
The incident showed me that the watch was well 
kept. 

The evening wore on — interminably, as it 
seemed to me. I darted to and fro from the bar, 


220 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


laden with mugs of beer and glasses of schnaps, 
incessantly, up and down. But I never failed, 
whenever there came a pause in the orders, to 
see that my journey finished somewhere in the 
neighborhood of the door. A faint hope was 
glimmering in my brain. 

Until the end of my life, that interminable 
evening in the beer-cellar will remain stamped 
in my memory. I can still see the scene in its 
every detail, and I know I shall carry the picture 
with me to the grave ; the long, low room with 
its blackened ceiling, the garish yellow gaslight, 
the smoke haze, the crowded tables, Otto, shuf- 
fiing hither and thither with his mean and sulky 
air, Frau Hedwig, preoccupied at her desk, red- 
eyed, a graven image of woe, and Haase, pre- 
siding over the beer-engine, silent, defiant, calm, 
but watchful every time the door opened. 

When at last the blow fell, it came suddenly. 
A trampling of feet on the stairs, a great blow- 
ing of whistles . . . then the door was burst 
open just as everybody in the cellar sprang to 
their feet amid exclamations and oaths from 
the men and shrill screams from the women. 
Outlined in the doorway stood Clubfoot, ma- 
jestic, authoritative, wearing some kind of little 
skull-cap, such as duelling students wear, over 
a black silk handkerchief boimd about his head. 
At the sight of the man the hubbub ceased on 


CLUBFOOT COMES TO HAASE’S 221 


the instant. All were still save Haase, whose 
bnll-like voice roaring for silence broke on the 
quiet of the room with the force of an explosion. 

I was in my comer by the door, pressed back 
against the coats and hats hanging on the wall. 
In front of me a frieze of frightened faces 
screened me from observation. Quickly, I 
slipped oif my apron. 

Clubfoot, after casting a cursory glance round 
the room, strode its length toward the bar where 
Haase stood, a crowd of plain-clothes men and 
policemen at his heels. Then quite suddenly the 
light went out, plunging the place into dark- 
ness. Instantly the room was in confusion; 
women screamed ; a voice, which I recognized as 
Clubfoot ^s, bawled stentorianly for lights . . . 
the moment had come to act. 

I grabbed a hat and coat from the hall, got 
into them somehow, and darted to the door. In 
the dim light shining down the stairs from a 
street lamp outside, I saw a man at the door. 
Apparently he was guarding it. 

^‘Back!’^ he cried, as I stepped up to him. 

I flashed in his eyes the silver star I held in 
my hand. 

‘^The Chief wants lanterns!’’ I said low in 
his ear. 

He grabbed my hand holding the badge and 
lowered it to the light. 


THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


‘‘All right, comrade,’’ he replied. “Drechsler 
has a lantern, I think! You’ll find him out- 
side!” 

I rushed up the stairs right into a group of 
three policemen. 

“The Chief wants Drechsler at once with the 
lantern,” I shouted, and showed my star. The 
three dispersed in ditferent directions calling 
for Drechsler. 

I walked quickly away. 


CHAPTEE XV 


THE WAITEB AT THE CAFE EEGINA 

1 CALCULATED that I had at least two 
hours, at most three, in which to get clear 
of Berlin. However swiftly Clubfoot 
might act, it would take him certainly an hour 
and a half, I reckoned, from the discovery of my 
flight from Haase’s to warn the police at the 
railway stations to detain me. If I could lay 
a false trail I might at the worst prolong this 
period of grace ; at the best I might mislead him 
altogether as to my ultimate destination, which 
was, of course, Diisseldorf. The unknown quan- 
tity in my reckonings was the time it would take 
Clubfoot to send out a warning all over Ger- 
many to detain Julius Zimmermann, waiter and 
deserter, wherever and whenever apprehended. 

At the first turning I came to after leaving 
Haase’s, tram-lines ran across the street. A 
tram was waiting, bound in a southerly direc- 
tion, where the center of the city lay. I ijumped 


223 


224 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

on to the front platform beside the woman 
driver. It is fairly dark in front and the 
conductor cannot see your face as you pay your 
fare through a trap in the door leading to the 
interior of the tram. I left the tram at Unter 
den Linden and walked down some side streets 
until I came across a quiet-looking cafe. There 
I got a railway guide and set about reviewing 
my plans. 

It was ten minutes to twelve. A man in my 
position would in all probability make for the 
frontier. So, I judged, Clubfoot must calculate, 
though, I fancied, he must have wondered why 
I had not long since attempted to escape back 
to England. Diisseldorf was on the main road 
to Holland, and it would certainly be the more 
prudent course, say, to make for the Ehine and 
travel on to my destination by a Rhine steamer. 
But time was the paramount factor in my case. 
By leaving immediately — that very night — for 
Diisseldorf I might possibly reach there before 
the local authorities had had time to receive the 
warning to be on the look-out for a man answer- 
ing to my description. If I could leave behind 
in Berlin a really good false clue, it was just 
possible that Clubfoot might follow it up before 
taking general dispositions to secure my arrest 
if that clue failed. I decided I must gamble on 
this hypothesis. 


THE WAITER AT THE CAFt REGINA 22s 

The railway guide showed that a train left 
for Diisseldorf from the Potsdamer Bahnhof — 
the great railway terminus in the very center of 
Berlin — at 12.45 a.m. That left me roughly 
three-quarters of an hour to lay my false trail 
and catch my train. My false trail should lead 
Clubfoot in a totally unexpected direction, I de- 
termined, for it is the unexpected that first en- 
gages the notice of the alert, detective type of 
mind. I would also have to select another ter- 
minus. 

Why not Munich? A large city on the high 
road to a foreign frontier — Switzerland — ^with 
authorities whose easy-going ways are prover- 
bial in Germany. You leave Berlin for Munich 
from the Anhalter Bahnhof, a terminus which 
was well suited for my purpose, as it is only a 
few minutes’ drive from the Potsdamer station. 

The railway guide showed there was a train 
leaving for Munich at 12.30 a.m. — an express. 
That would do admirably. Munich it should be 
then. 

Fortunately I had plenty of money. I had 
taken the precaution of getting Kore to change 
my money into German notes before we left 
In den Zelten . . . at a preposterous rate of 
exchange, be it said. How lost I should have 
been without Semlin’s wad of notes! 

I paid for my coffee and set forth again. It 


226 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


was 12.15 as I walked into the hall of the An- 
halt station. 

Remembering the ruse which the friendly 
guide at Rotterdam had taught me, I be- 
gan by purchasing a platform ticket. Then I 
looked about for an official upon whom I could 
suitably impress my identity. Presently I es- 
pied a pompous-looking fellow in a bright blue 
uniform and scarlet cap, some kind of junior 
stationmaster, I thought. 

I approached him and, raising my hat, po- 
litely asked him if he could tell me when there 
was a train leaving for Munich. 

‘‘The express goes at 12.30,’’ he said, “but 
only first and second class, and you’ll have to 
pay the supplementary charge. The slow train 
is not till 5.49.” 

I assumed an expression of vexation. 

“I suppose I must go by the express,” I said. 
“Can you tell me where the booking-office is?’^ 

The official pointed to a pigeon-hole and I 
took care to speak loud enough for him to hear 
me ask for a second-class ticket, single, to Mu- 
nich. 

I walked upstairs and presented my Munich 
ticket to the collector at the harrier. Then I 
hurried past the main-line platforms over the 
suburban side, where I gave up my platform 
ticket and descended again to the street. 


THE WAITER AT THE CAFfi REGINA 227 

It was just on the half-hour as I came out of 
the station. Not a cab to be seen! I hastened 
as fast as my legs would carry me until, breath- 
less and panting, I reached the Potsdam ter- 
minus. The clock over the station pointed to 
12 . 39 . 

A long queue, composed mostly of soldiers 
returning to Belgium and the front, stood in 
front of the booking-office. The military were 
getting their warrants changed for tickets. 
I chafed at the delay, but it was actually this 
circumstance which afforded me the chance of 
getting my ticket for Diisseldorf without leav- 
ing any clue behind. 

A big, bearded Landsturm mail with a kind 
face was at the pigeon-hole. 

‘‘I am very late for my train, my friend,” I 
said, ‘‘would you get me a third-class single for 
Diisseldorf?” I handed him a twenty-mark 
note. 

“Right you are,” he answered readily. 

“There,” he said, handing me my ticket and 
a handful of change, “and lucky you are to be 
going to the Rhine. I’m from the Rhine myself 
and now I’m going back to guarding the bridges 
in Belgium!” 

I thanked him and wished him luck. Here 
at least was a witness who was not likely to 
trouble me. And with a thankful heart I bolted 


228 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


on to the platform and caught the train. 

Third-class travel in Germany is not a 
hobby to be cultivated if your means allow the 
luxury of better accommodation. The travel- 
ling German has a habit of taking otf his boots 
when he journeys in the train by night — and 
a carriageful of lower middle-class Huns, thus 
unshod, in the temperature at which railway 
compartments are habitually kept in Germany, 
is an environment which makes neither for com- 
fort nor for sleep. 

The atmosphere, indeed, was so unbearable 
that I spent most of the night in the corridor. 
Here I was able to destroy the papers of Julius 
Zimmermann, waiter ... I felt I was in greater 
danger whilst I had them on me . . . and to 
assure myself that my precious document was 
in its usual place — in my portfolio. It was then 
I made the discovery, annihilating at the first 
shock, that my silver badge had disappeared. I 
could not remember what I had done with it in 
the excitement of my escape from Haase’s. I 
remembered having it in my hand and showing 
it to the police at the top of the stairs, but after 
that my mind was a blank. I could only imagine 
I must have carried it unconsciously in my hand 
and then dropped it. I looked at the place where 
it had been clasped on my braces: it was not 
there and I searched all my pockets in vain. 


THE WAITER AT THE CAFfi REGINA 22 ^ 

I had relied upon it as a stand-by in case there 
were trouble at the station in Diisseldorf. Now 
I found myself defenceless if I were challenged. 
It was a hard knock, but I consoled myself by 
the reflection that, by now. Clubfoot knew I had 
this badge ... it would doubtless figure in any 
description circulated about me. 

It was a most unpleasant journey. There 
was some kind of choral society on the train, 
occupying seven or eight compartments of the 
third-class coach in which I was travelling. 
For the first few hours they made night hideous 
with part-songs, catches and glees chanted with 
a volume of sound that in that confined place 
was simply deafening. Then the noise abated as 
one by one the singers dropped ofif to sleep. 
Presently silence fell, while the train rushed 
forward in the darkness bearing me towards 
fresh perils, fresh adventures. 


A gust of fresh air in my face, the trample of 
feet, loud greetings in guttural German, awoke 
me with a start. It was broad daylight and 
through my compartment, to which I had crept 
in the night, weary with standing, filed the 
jovial members of the choral society, with 
bags in their hands and huge cockades in their 


^30 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

buttonholes. There was a band on the 
platform and a huge choir of men who 
bawled a stentorian-voiced hymn of greeting. 
‘‘Diisseldorf^' was the name printed on the 
station lamps. 

All the passengers, save the members of the 
choral society, had left the train, apparently, 
for every carriage door stood open. I sprang 
to my feet and let myself go with the stream of 
men. Thus I swept out of the train and right 
into the midst of the jostling crowd of bands- 
men, singers and spectators on the platform. I 
stood with the new arrivals until the hymn was 
ended and thus solidly encadres by the Diissel- 
dorfers, we drifted out through the barrier into 
the station courtyard. There brakes were wait- 
ing into which the jolly choristers, guests and 
hosts, clambered noisily. But I walked straight 
on into the streets, scarcely able to realize that 
no one had questioned me, that at last, unhin- 
dered, I stood before my goal. 

Diisseldorf is a bright, clean town with a 
touch of good taste in its public buildings to re- 
mind one that this busy, industrial city has 
found time even while making money to have 
called into being a school of art of its own. It 
was a delightful morning with dazzling sun- 
shine and an eager nip in the air that spoke 
of the swift, deep river that bathes the city 


THE WAITER AT THE CAF^ REGINA 231 


walls. I revelled in the clear, cold atmosphere 
after the foulness of the drinking-den and the 
stifling heat of the journey. I exulted in the 
sense of liberty I experienced at having once 
more eluded the grim clutches of Clubfoot. 
Above all, my heart sang within me at the 
thought of an early meeting with Francis. In 
the mood I was in, I would admit no possibility 
of disappointment now. Francis and I would 
come together at last. 

I came upon a public square presently and 
there facing me was a great, big cafe, white and 
new and dazzling, wdth large plate-glass win- 
dows and rows of tables on a covered varandah 
outside. It was undoubtedly a ^^kolossaV^ 
establishment after the best Berlin style. So 
that there might be no mistake about the name 
it was placajrded all over the front of the place 
in gilt letters three feet high on glass panels — 
Cafe Regina. 

It was about nine o’clock in the morning and 
at that early hour I had the place to myself. 
I felt very small, sitting at a tiny table, with 
tables on every side of me, stretching away as it 
were into the EwigJceit, in a vast white room 
with mural paintings of the crassest school of 
impressionism. 

I ordered a good, substantial breakfast and 
whiled away the time while it was coming by 


232 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

glancing at the morning paper which the waiter 
brought me. 

My eyes ran down the columns without my 
heeding what I read, for my thoughts were 
busy with Francis. When did he come to the 
cafe? How was he living at Diisseldorf ? 

Suddenly, I found myself looking at a name 
I knew ... it was in the personal paragraphs. 

‘‘Lieut.-General Count von Boden,’’ the para- 
graph ran, ‘‘Aide-de-Camp to H.M. the Emper- 
or, has been placed on the retired list owing to 
ill-health. General von Boden has left for Ab- 
bazia, where he will take up his permanent 
residence. ’ ’ There followed the usual biograph- 
ical notes. 

Of a truth. Clubfoot was a power in the land. 

I ate my breakfast at a table by the open 
door, and surveyed the busy life of the square 
where the pigeons circled in the sunshine, A 
waiter stood on the verandah idly watching the 
birds as they pecked at the stones. I was struck 
with the profound melancholy depicted in his 
face. His cheeks were sunken and he had a 
pinched look which I had observed in the fea- 
tures of most of the customers at Haase’s. I 
set it down to the insufficient feeding which is 
general among the lower classes in Germany 
to-day. 

But in addition to this man’s wasted appear- 


THE WAITER AT THE CAF^: REGINA 233 

ance, his eyes were hollow, there were deep 
lines about his mouth and he wore a haggard 
look that had something strangely pathetic 
about it. His air of brooding sadness seemed to 
attract me, and I found my eyes continually 
wandering hack to his face. 

And then, without warning, through some 
mysterious whispering of the blood, the truth 
came to me that this was my brother. I don’t 
know whether it was a passing mood reflected 
in his face or the shifting lights and shadows in 
his eyes that lifted the veil. I only know that 
through those features ravaged by care and 
sulfering and in spite of them I caught a glimpse 
of the brother I had come to seek. 

I rattled a spoon on the table and called soft- 
ly out to the verandah. Kellner 

The man turned. 

I beckoned to him. He came over to my table. 
He never recognized me, so dull was he with dis- 
appointment . . . me with my unshavea, un- 
kempt appearance and in my mean German 
shoddy . . . but stood silently, awaiting my bid- 
ding 

‘‘Francis,” I said softly . . . and I spoke in 
German . . . “Francis, don’t you know me?” 

He was magnificent, strong and resourceful 
in his joy at our meeting as he had been in his 
months of weary waiting. 


224 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 

Only his mouth quivered a little as instantly 
his hands busied themselves with clearing 
away my breakfast. 

‘‘Jawohl!’’ he answered in a perfectly emo- 
tionless voice. 

And then he smiled and in a flash the old 
Francis stood before me. 

^‘Not a word now/^ he said in German as he 
cleared away the breakfast. am off this af- 
ternoon. Meet me on the river promenade by 
the Schiller statue at a quarter past two and 
We’ll go for a walk. Don’t stay here now but 
come back and lunch in the restaurant . . .it’s 
always crowded and pretty safe!” 

Then he called out into the void; 

“Twenty-six wants to pay!” 


Such was my meeting with my brother. 


CHAPTER XVI 


A HAND-CLASP BY THE BHINE 

T hat aftemoon Francis and I walked out 
along the banks of the swiftly flowing 
Rhine until we were far beyond the 
city. Anxious though I was that he should 
reveal to me that part of his life which lay 
hidden beneath those lines of suffering in his 
face, he made me tell my story first. So I 
unfolded to him the extraordinary series of ad- 
ventures that had befallen me since the night I 
had blundered upon the trail of a great secret 
in that evil hotel at Rotterdam. 

Francis did not once interrupt the flow of my 
narrative. He listened with the most tense in- 
terest but with a growing concern which be- 
trayed itself clearly on his face. At the end of 
my story, I silently handed to him the half of 
the stolen letter I had seized from Clubfoot at 
the Hotel Esplanade. 

‘^Keep it, Francis,’’ I said. “It’s safer with 


^35 


THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

a respectable waiter like you than with a hunted 
outcast like myself!^’ 

My brother smiled wanly, but his face as- 
sumed the look of grave anxiety with which he 
had heard my tale. He scrutinized' the slips of 
paper very closely, then tucked them away in 
a letter-case, which he buttoned up in his pocket. 

‘‘Fortune is a strange goddess, Des,’’ he 
said, his weary eyes roving out over the turgid, 
yellow stream, “and she has been kind to you, 
though, God knows, you have played a man’s 
part in all this. She has placed in your pos- 
session something for which at least five men 
have died in vain, something that has filled my 
thoughts, sleeping and waking, for more than 
half a year. What you have told me throws 
a good deal of light upon the mystery which I 
came to this cursed country to elucidate, but it 
also deepens the darkness which still envelops 
many points in the affair. 

“You know there are issues in this game of 
ours, old man, that stand even higher than the 
confidence that there has always been between 
us two. That is why I wrote to you so seldom 
out in France — I could tell you nothing about 
my work : that is one of the rules of our game. 
But now you have broken into the scramble 
yourself, I feel that we are partners, so I will 
tell you all I know. 


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE 2^7 


‘‘Listen, then. Some time about the begin- 
ning of the year a letter written by a German 
interned at one of the camps in England was 
stopped by the Camp Censor. This German 
went by the name of Schulte: he was arrested 
at a house in Dalston the day after we declared 
war on Germany. There was a good reason for 
this, for our friend Schulte — ^we don’t know his 
real name — ^was known to my Chief as one of 
the most daring and successful spies that ever 
operated in the British Isles. 

“Therefore, a sharp eye was kept on his cor- 
respondence, and one day this letter was seized. 
It was, I believe, perfectly harmless to the eye, 
but the expert to whom it was eventually sub- 
mitted soon detected a conventional code in 
the chatty phrases about the daily life of the 
camp. It proved to be a communication from 
Schulte to a third party relating to a certain 
letter which, apparently, the writer imagined the 
third party had a considerable interest in ac- 
quiring. For he offered to sell this letter to 
the third party, mentioning a sum so prepos- 
terously high that it attracted the earnest atten- 
tion of our Intelligence people. On half the sum 
mentioned being paid into the writer’s account 
at a certain bank in London, the letter went on 
to say, the writer would forward the address at 
which the object in question would be found. 


238 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

“It was a simple matter to send Sclmlte a let- 
ter in return, agreeing to his terms, and to have 
the payment made, as desired, into the bank he 
mentioned. His communication in reply to this 
was duly stopped. The address he gave was 
that of a house situated on the outskirts of 
Cleves. 

“We had no idea what this letter was, but 
its apparent value in the eyes of the shrewd Mr. 
Schulte made it highly desirable that we should 
obtain possession of it without delay. Four of 
us were selected for this dangerous mission of 
getting into Germany and fetching it, by hook 
or by crook, from the house at Cleves where it 
was deposited. We four were to enter Germany 
by different routes and different means and to 
converge on Cleves (which is quite close to the 
Dutch frontier). 

“It would take too long to tell you of the 
very exact organization which we worked out 
to exclude all risk of failure and the various 
schemes we evolved for keeping in touch with 
one another though working separately and in 
rotation. Nor does it matter very much how I 
got into Germany. The fact is that, at my very 
first attempt to get across the frontier, I real- 
ized that some immensely powerful force was 
working against me. 

“I managed it, with half a dozen hairbreadth 


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE 23 ^ 

escapes, and I set down my success solely to my 
knowledge of German and to that old trick of 
mine of German imitations. But I felt every- 
where the influence of this unseen hand, enforc- 
ing a meticulous vigilance which it was almost 
impossible to escape. I was not surprised, there- 
fore, to learn that two of my companions came 
to grief at the very outset.’’ 

My brother lowered his voice and looked 
about him. 

‘‘Do you know what happened to those two 
gallant fellows?” he said. “Jack Tracy was 
found dead on the railway; Herbert Arbuthnot 
was discovered hanging in a wood. ‘Suicide 
of an Unknown Individual’ was what the Ger- 
man papers called it in each case. But I heard 
the truth . . . never mind how. They were am- 
bushed and slaughtered in cold blood. ’ ’ 

“And the third man you spoke of ?” I asked. 

“Philip Brewster? Vanished, Des . . . van- 
ished utterly. I fear he, too, has gone west, 
poor chap!” 

“Of the whole four of us I was the only one 
to reach our objective. There I drew blank. 
The letter was not in the hiding-place in- 
dicated. I think it never had been or the Huns 
would have got it. I felt all the time that they 
didn’t know exactly where the letter was but 
that they anticipated our attempt to get it, hence 


240 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

the unceasing vigilance all along the frontier 
and inside it, too 

‘‘They damned nearly got me at Cleves: I 
escaped as by a miracle, and the providential 
thing for me was that I had never posed as 
anything but a German, only I varied the type 
I represented almost from day to day. Thus I 
left no , traces behind or they would have had 
me long since. ’ ’ 

The sadness in my brother’s voice increased 
and the shadows deepened in his face. 

‘ ‘ Then I tried to get out, ’ ’ he continued. ‘ ‘ But 
it was hopeless from the first. They knew they 
had one of us left in the net and they closed 
every outlet. I made two separate attempts to 
cross the line back into Holland, but both failed. 
The second time I literally had to flee for my 
life. I went straight to Berlin, feeling that a 
big city, as remote from the frontier as possible, 
was the only safe hiding-place for me as long as 
the hue and cry lasted. 

^‘I was in a desperate bad way, too, for I 
had had to abandon the last set of identity pa- 
pers left to me when I bolted. I landed in Ber-i 
lin with the knowledge that no roof could safely, 
shelter me until I got a fresh lot of papers. 

“I knew of Kore — had heard of hiTn and 
his shirkers’ and deserters’ agency in my trav- 
els — and I went straight to him. He sent me to 


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE ^41 

Haase’s . . . this was towards the end of June. 
It was when I was at Haase’s that I sent out 
that message to van Urutius that fell into your 
hands. That happened like this. 

was rather friendly with a chap that fre- 
quented Haase’s, a man employed in the pack- 
ing department at the Metal Works at Steglitz. 
He was telling us one night how short-handed 
they were and what good money packers were 
earning. I was sick of being cooped up in that 
stinking cellar, so, more by way of a joke than 
anything else, I offered to come and lend a hand 
in the packing department. I thought I might 
get a chance of escape, as I saw none at Haase’s. 
To my surprise, Haase, who was sitting at the 
table, rather fancied the idea and said I could go 
if I paid him half my wages : I was getting no- 
thing at the beer-cellar. 

‘‘So I was taken on at Steglitz, sleeping at 
Haase’s and helping in the beer-cellar in the eve- 
nings. One day a package for old van Urutius 
came to me to be made up and suddenly it oc- 
curred to me that here was a chance of sending 
out a message to the outside world. I hoped 
that old van U., if he tumbled to the ‘Eichen- 
holz,’ would send it to you and that you would 
pass it on to my Chief in London.” 

“Then you expected me to come after you?” 
I said. 


2^2 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

replied Francis promptly, ‘‘I did not 
But the arrangement was that, if none of us 
four men had turned up at Head-quarters by 
May 15th, a fifth man should come in and be 
at a given rendezvous near the frontier on June 
15th. I went to the place on June 15th, but he 
never showed up and, though I waited about 
for a couple of days, I saw no sign of him. I 
made my final attempt to get out and it failed, 
so, when I fled to Berlin, I knew that I had cut 
off all means of communication with home. As 
a last hope, I dashed off that cipher on the spur 
of the moment and tucked it into old van U’s 
invoice.” 

‘^But why ‘Achilles’ with one ‘I’T’ I asked. 

‘ ‘ They knew all about Kore ’s agency at Head- 
quarters, but I didn’t dare mention Kore’s name 
for fear the parcel might be opened. So I pur- 
posely spelt ‘Achilles’ with one ‘1’ to draw at- 
tention to the code word, so that they should 
know where news of me was to be found. It was 
devilish smart of you to decipher that, DesI” 

Francis smiled at me. 

“I meant to stay quietly in Berlin, going daily 
between Haase’s and the factory and wait, for 
a month or two, in case that message got home. 
But Kore began to give trouble. At the be- 
ginning of July he came to see me and hinted 
that the renewal of my per mis de sejour would 


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE 243 

cost money. I paid him, but I realized then that 
I was absolutely in his power and I had no inten- 
tion of being blackmailed. So I made use of his 
cupidity to leave a message for the man who, I 
hoped, would be coming after me, wrote that 
line on the wall under the Boonekamp poster in 
that filthy hovel where we slept and came up 
here after a job I had heard of at the Cafe Re- 
gina. 

‘‘And now, Des, old man,’’ said my brother, 
‘ ‘ you know all that I know ! ’ ’ 

“Amd Clubfoot?” 

“ Ah !” said Francis, shaking his head, “there 
I think I recognize the hand that has been 
against us from the start, though who the man 
is, and what his power, I, like you, only know 
from what he told you himself. The Germans 
are clever enough, as we know from their com- 
muniques, to tell the truth when it suits their 
book. I believe that Clubfoot was telling you 
the truth in what he said about his mission that 
night at the Esplanade. 

“You and I know now that the Kaiser wrote 
that letter ... we also know that it was ad- 
dressed to an influential English friend of Wil- 
liam II. You have seen the date . . . Berlin, 
July 31st, 1914 . . . the eve of the outbreak of 
the world war. Even from this half in my 
pocket . . . and you who have seen both halves 


244 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 


of the letter will confirm what I say ... I can 
imagine what an effect on the international 
situation this letter would have had if it had 
reached the man for whom it was destined. But 
it did not . . . why, we donT know. We do 
know, however, that the Emperor is keenly 
anxious to regain possession of his letter . . . 
you yourself were a witness of his anxiety and 
you know that he put the matter into the hands 
of the man Clubfoot.’^ 

‘‘Well,’^ I observed thoughtfully, ‘‘Clubfoot, 
whoever he is, seems to have made every effort 
to keep my escapades dark. . . .’’ 

“Precisely,” said Francis, “and lucky for 
you too. Otherwise Clubfoot would have had you 
stopped at the frontier. But obviously secrecy 
is an essential part of his instructions, and he 
has shown himself willing to risk almost any- 
thing rather than call in the aid of the regular 
police.” 

“But they can always hush these things up !” 
I objected. 

“From the public, yes, but not from the Court. 
This letter looks uncommonly like one of Wil- 
liam’s sudden impulses . . . and I fancy any- 
thing of the kind would get very little tolerance 
in Germany in war-time.” 

“But who is Clubfoot?” I questioned. 

My brother furrowed his brows anxiously. 


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE 245 

‘‘Des,’^ he said, ‘‘I don’t know. He is cer- 
tainly not a regular official of the German In- 
telligence like Steinhaner and the others. But I 
have heard of a clubfooted German on two oc- 
casions . . . both were dark and mysterious 
affairs, in both he played a leading role and 
both ended in the violent death of one of our 
men.” 

‘‘Then Tracy and the others . . Tasked. 

“Victims of this man, Des, without any 
doubt,” my brother answered. He paused a 
moment reflectively. 

“There is a code of honor in our game, old 
man,” he said, “and there are lots of men in 
the German secret service who live up to it. 
We give and take plenty of hard knocks in the 
rough-and-tumble of the chase, but ambush and 
assassination are barred.” 

He took a deep breath and added : 

“But the man Clubfoot doesn’t play the 
game!” 

“Francis,” I said, “I wish I’d known some- 
thing of this that night I had him at my mercy 
at the Esplanade. He would not have got off 
with a cracked skull . . . with one blow. 
There would have been another blow for Tracy, 
one for Arbuthnot, one for the other man . . . 
until the account was settled and I’d beaten his 
brains out on the carpet. But if we meet him 


246 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

again, Francis ... as, please God, we shall! 
. . . there will he no code of honor for him . . . 
we T1 finish him in cold blood as we ’d kill a rat ! ’ ’ 

My brother thrust out his hand at me and we 
clasped hands on it. 

Evening was falling and lights were begin- 
ning to twinkle from the further bank of the 
river. 

We stood for a moment in silence with the 
river rushing at our feet. Then we turned and 
started to tramp back towards the city. Fran- 
cis linked his arm in mine. 

“And now, Des,’’ he said in his old affection- 
ate way, “tell me some more about Monica!’’ 

Out of that talk germinated in my head the 
only plan that seemed to offer us a chance of 
escape. I was quite prepared to believe Francis 
when he declared that the frontier was at pres- 
ent impassable: if the vigilance had been in- 
-^reased before it would be redoubled now that I 
had again eluded Clubfoot. We should, there- 
fore, have to find some cover where we could 
lie doggo until the excitement passed. 

You remember that Monica told me, the last 
time I had seen her, that she was shortly going 
to Schloss Bellevue, a shooting-box belonging 
to her husband, to arrange some shoots in con- 
nection with the Governmental scheme for put- 
ting game on the market. Monica, you will 


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE 247 

recollect, had offered to take me with her, and 
I had fully meant to accompany her but for Ger- 
ry unfortunate persistence in the matter of 
my passport. 

I now proposed to Francis that we should 
avail ourselves of Monica’s offer and make for 
Castle Bellevue. The place was well suited for 
our purpose as it lies near Cleves, and in its 
immediate neighborhood is the Reichswald, that 
great forest which stretches from Germany, 
clear across into Holland. All through my 
wanderings, I had kept this forest in the back 
of my head as a region which must offer facili- 
ties for slipping unobserved across the frontier. 
Now I learnt from Francis that he had spent 
months in the vicinity of Cleves, and I was not 
surprised to find, when I outlined this plan to 
him, that he knew the Reichswald pretty well. 

‘‘It’ll be none too easy to get across through 
the forest,” he said doubtfully, “it’s very close- 
ly patrolled, but I do know of one place where 
we could lie pretty snug for a day or two wait- 
ing for a chance to make a dash. But we have 
no earthly chance of getting through at present : 
our clubfooted pal will see to that all right. And 
I don’t much like the idea of going to Bellevue 
either: it will be horribly dangerous for Mon- 
ica!” 

“I don’t think so,” I said. “The whole place 


248 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


will be overrun with people, guests, servants, 
beaters and the like, for these shoots. Both you 
and I know German and we look rough enough : 
we ought to be able to get an emergency job 
about the place without embarrassing Monica 
in the least. I don’t believe they will ever 
dream of looking for us so close to this fron- 
tier. The only possible trail they can pick up 
after me in Berlin leads to Munich. Clubfoot 
is bound to think I am making for the Swiss 
frontier.” 

Well, the long and the short of it was that my 
suggestion was carried, and we resolved to set 
out for Bellevue that very night. My brother 
declared he would not return to the cafe : with ^ 
the present shortage of men, such desertions 
were by no means uncommon, and if he were to | 
give notice formally it might only lead to em- > 
barrassing explanations. i 

So we strolled back to the city in the gather- ^ 
ing darkness, bought a map of the Ehine and a ' 
couple of rucksacks and laid in a small stock of ii 
provisions at a great department store, biscuits, 
chocolates, some hard sausage and two small i 
flasks of rum. Then Francis took me to a little , 
restaurant where he was known and introduced "i 
me to the friendly proprietor, a very jolly old i 
Eheinlander, as his brother just out of hospi- | 
tal. I did my country good service, I think, by j 


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE 249 

giving a most harrowing account of the terrible 
efficiency of the British army on the So mm e ! 

Then we dined and over our meal consulted 
the map. 

‘‘By the map/’ I said, “Bellevue should he 
about fifty miles from here. My idea is that we 
should walk only at night and lie up during the 
day, as a room is out of the question for me 
without any papers. I think we should keep 
away from the Rhine, don’t you? as otherwise 
we shall pass through Wesel, which is a fortress, 
and, consequently, devilish unhealthy for both 
of us.” 

Francis nodded with his mouth full. 

“At present we can count on about twelve 
hours of darkness,” I continued, “so, leaving a 
margin for the slight detour we shall make, for 
rests and for losing the way, I think we ought 
to be able to reach Castle Bellevue on the third 
night from this. If the weather holds up, it 
won’t be too bad, but if it rains, it will be hell- 
ish I Now, have you any suggestions ? ’ ’ 

My brother acquiesced, as, indeed, he had in 
everything I had proposed since we met. Poor 
fellow, he had had a roughish time : he seemed 
glad to have the direction of affairs taken out 
of his hands for a bit. 

At half-past seven that evening, our packs 
OB our backs, we stood on the outskirts of the 


^50 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

town where the road branches off to Crefeld. In 
the pocket of the overcoat I had filched from 
Haase ^s I found an automatic pistol, fully load- 
ed (most of our customers at the beer-cellar 
went armed). 

‘‘YouVe got the document, Francis,’^ I said. 
You’d better have this, too!” and I passed 
him the gun. 

Francis waved it aside. 

^‘You keep it,” he said grimly, ‘Ht may serve 
you instead of a passport.” 

So I slipped the weapon back into my pocket. 
A cold drop of rain fell upon my face. 

‘ ‘ Oh, hell ! ” I cried, ‘ Ht ’s beginning to rain ! ’ ’ 
And thus we set out upon our journey. 


It was a nightmare tramp. The rain never 
ceased. By day we lay in icy misery, chilled 
to the bone in our sopping clothes, in some dank 
ditch or wet undergrowth, with aching bones 
and blistered feet, fearing detection, but fear- 
ing, even more, the coming of night and the re- 
sumption of our march. Yet we stuck to our 
programme like Spartans, and about eight 
o’clock on the third evening, hobbling painfully 
along the road that runs from Cleves to Calcar, 
we were rewarded by the sight of a long mas- 


A HAND-CLASP BY THE RHINE 251 

sive building, with turrets at the corners, stand- 
ing back from the highway behind a tall brick 
wall. 

‘‘Bellevue!’^ I said to Francis, with pointing 
finger. 

We left the road and climbing a wooden pali- 
sade, struck out across the fields with the idea 
of getting into the park from the back. We 
passed some black and silent farm buildings, 
went through a gate and into a paddock, on the 
further side of which ran the wall surrounding 
the place. Somewhere beyond the wall a fire 
was blazing. We could see the leaping light of 
the flames and drifting smoke. At the same mo- 
ment we heard voices, loud voices disputing in 
German. 

We crept across the paddock to the wall. I 
gave Fiancis a back and he hoisted himself to 
the top and looked over. In a moment he sprang 
lightly down, a finger to his lips. 

‘‘Soldiers round a fire,” he whispered. 
“There must be troops billeted here. Come on 
> . . we’ll go further round!” 

We ran softly along the wall to where it 
turned to the right and followed it round. Pres- 
ently we came to a small iron gate in the wall. 
It stood open. 

We listened.. The sound of voices was fainter 
here. We still saw the reflection of the flames 


^5^ THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


in the sky. Otherwise, there was no sign or 
sound of human life. 

The gate led into an ornamental garden with 
the Castle at the further end. All the windows 
were in darkness. We threaded a garden path 
leading to the house. It brought us in front of 
a glass door. I turned the handle and it yielded 
to my grasp. 

I whispered to Francis : 

^‘Stay where you are! And if you hear me 
shout, fly for your life 

For, I reflected, the place might be full of 
troops. If there were any risk it would be bet- 
ter for me to take it since Francis, with his 
identity papers, had a better chance than I of 
bringing the document into safety. 

I opened the glass door and found myself in 
a lobby with a door on the right. 

I listened again. All was still. I cautiously 
opened the door and looked in. As I did so 
the place was suddenly flooded with light 
and a voice — a voice I had often heard in my 
dreams — called out imperiously; 

‘‘Stay where you are and put your hands 
above your head!’’ 

Clubfoot stood there, a pistol in his great 
hand pointed at me. 

“Grundt!” I shouted but I did not move. 

And Clubfoot laughed. 


CHAPTER XVn 


FEAN CIS TAKES UP THE NAEBATIVE 

I SAW the lights flash up in the room. I 
heard Desmond cry out: ‘‘Grundt!’’ 
Instantly I flung myself flat on my face in 
the flower bed, lest Desmond ^s shout might have 
alarmed the soldiers about the fire. But no one 
came ; the gardens remained dark and damp and 
silent, and I heard no sound from the room in 
which I knew my brother to be, in the clutches 
of that man. 

Desmond ^s cry pulled me together. It seemed 
to arouse me from the lethargy into which I had 
sunk during all those months of danger and dis- 
appointment. It shook me into life. If I was to 
save him, not a moment was to be lost. Clubfoot 
would act swiftly, I knew. So must I. But first 
I must find out what the situation was, the 
meaning of Clubfoot’s presence in Monica’s 
house, of those soldiers in the park. And, above^ 
all, was Monica herself at the Castle? 


^53 


254 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 


I had noticed a little estaminet place on the 
road, about a hundred yards before we reached 
the Schloss. I might, at least, he able to pick 
up something there. Accordingly, I stole across 
the garden, scaled the wall again and reached 
the road in safety. 

The estaminet was full of people, brutish- 
looking peasants swilling neat spirits, cattle 
drovers and the like. I stood up at the bar and 
ordered a double noggin of Korn — a raw 
spirit made in these parts from potatoes, very 
potent but at least pure. A man in corduroys 
and leggings was drinking at the bar, a blulf 
sort of chap, who readily entered into conversa- 
tion. A casual question of mine about the game 
conditions elicited from him the information 
that he was an under-keeper at the Castle, It 
was a busy time for them, he told me, as four 
big shoots had been arranged. The first was to 
take place the next day. There were plenty of 
birds, and he thought the Frau Grafin’s guests 
ought to be satisfied. 

I asked him if there was a big party staying 
at the Castle. No, he told me, only one gentle- 
man besides the officer billeted there, but a lot 
of people were coming over for the shoot the 
next day, the officers from Cleves and Goch, the 
Chief Magistrate from Cleves, and a number of 
farmers from round about. 


FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE 25 ^ 

“I expect you will find the soldiers billeted at 
(he Castle useful as beaters,” I enquired with 
a purpose. 

The man assented grudgingly. Gamekeepers 
are first-class grumblers. But the soldiers were 
not many. For his part he could do without 
them altogether. They were such terrible 
poachers to have about the place, he declared. 
But what they would do for beaters without 
them, he didn’t know . . . they were very short 
of beaters . . . that was a fact. 

“I am staying at Cleves,” I said, ‘‘and I’m 
out of a job. I am not long from hospital, and 
they’ve discharged me from the army. I 
wouldn’t mind earning a few marks as a beater, 
and I’d like to see the sport. I used to do a bit 
of shooting myself down on the Rhine where I 
come from.” 

The man shrugged his shoulders and shook his 
head. “That’s none of my business, getting the 
beaters together, ’ ’ he replied. ‘ ‘ Besides, I shall 
have the head gamekeeper after me if I go 
bringing strangers in. . . . ” 

I ordered another drink for both of us, and 
won the man round without much difficulty. 
He pouched my five mark note and announced 
that he would manage it . . . the Frau Grafin 
was to see some men who had offered their 
services as beaters after dinner at the Castle 


256 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

that evening. He would take me along. 

Half an hour later I stood, as one of a group 
of shaggy and bedraggled rustics, in a big stone 
courtyard outside the main entrance to the 
Castle. The head gamekeeper mustered us with 
his eye and, bidding us follow him, led the way 
under a valted gateway through a massive door 
into a small lobby which had apparently been 
built into the great hall of the Castle, for it 
opened right into it. 

We found ourselves in a splendid old feudal 
hall, oak-lined and oak-raftered, with lines of 
dusty banners just visible in the twilight reign- 
ing in the upper part of the vast place. The 
modem generation had forborne to desecrate 
the fine old room with electric light, and massive 
silver candlesticks shed a soft light on the table 
set at the far end of the hall, where dinner, ap- 
parently, was just at an end. 

Three people were sitting at the table, a wom- 
an at the head, who, even before I had taken in 
the details I have just set down, I knew to be 
Monica, though her back was towards me. On 
one side of the table was a big, heavy man whom 
I recognized as Clubfoot, on the other side a 
pale slip of a lad in officer’s uniform with only 
one arm . . . Schmalz, no doubt. 

A servant said something to Monica, who, 
asking permission of her companions by a ges- 


FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE 257 


ture, left the table and came across the hall. To 
my surprise, she was dressed in deepest black 
with linen culfs. Her face was pale and set, and 
there was a look of fear and suffering in her 
eyes that wrung my very heart. 

I had shuffled into the last place of the row in 
which the head keeper had ranged us. Monica 
spoke a word or two to each of the men, who 
shambled off in turn with low obeisances. 
Directly she stopped in front of me I knew she 
had recognized me — I felt it rather, for she made 
no sign — though the time I had had in Germany 
had altered my appearance, I dare say, and I 
must have looked pretty rough with my three 
days’ beard and muddy clothes. 

‘ ‘ Ah ! ’ ’ she said with all her languor de grande 
dame, ‘‘you are the man of whom Heinrich 
spoke. You have just come out of hospital, I 
think?” 

“Beg the Frau Grafin’s pardon,” I mumbled 
out in the thick patois of the Rhine which I had 
learnt at Bonn, “I served with the Herr Graf 
in Galicia, and I thought maybe the Frau Gra- 
fin . . .” 

She stopped me with a gesture. 

“Herr Doktor!” she called to the dinner- 
table. 

By Jove! this girl had grit: her pluck was 
splendid. 


258 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

Clubfoot came stumping over, all smiles after 
his food and smoking a long cigar that smelt 
delicious. 

‘‘Frau GrafinT^ he queried, glancing at me. 

‘ ‘ This is a man who served under my husband 
in Galicia. He is ill and out of work, and wishes 
me to help him. I should wish, therefore, to 
see him in my sitting-room, if you will allow 
me. . . . 

“But, Frau Grafin, most certainly. There 
surely was no need . . . 

“Johann!’’ Monica called the servant I had 
seen before, “take this man into the sitting- 
room!” 

The servant led the way across the hall into 
a snugly furnished library with a dainty writ- 
ing-desk and pretty chintz curtains. Monica 
followed and sat down at the desk. 

“Now tell me what you wish to say . . 
she began in German as the servant left the 
room, but almost as soon as he had gone she 
was on her feet, clasping my hands. 

“Francis!” she whispered in English in a 
great sob, “oh, Francis! what have they done 
to you to make you look like that?’^ 

I gripped her wrist tightly. 

“Frau Grafin,” I said in German, still in that 
hideous patois, “you must be calm.” And I 
whispered in English in her ear : 


FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE ^5p 

‘‘Monica, be brave! And talk German what- 
ever yon do.’^ 

She regained her self-possession at once. 

“I understand,” she answered, sitting down 
at her desk again “it is more prudent.” 

And for the rest of the time we spoke in Ger- 
man. 

“Desmond?” I asked. 

“Locked up in GrundUs bedroom,” she re- 
plied. “I met them pushing him along the cor- 
ridor — it was horrible! Grundt won^t let him 
out of his sight. Oh, it was madness to have 
come. If only I could have warned you!” 

“What is Grundt doing here?” I asked. 
“And those soldiers and that officer?” 

“My dear,” she answered, and her eyes 
flashed mischief in a sudden change of mood, 
“I^m in preventive arrest!” 

“But, Monica. ...” 

‘ ‘ Listen ! Gerry and that spying man-servant 
of his made trouble. When Des went off that 
evening and didn’t come back, Gerry insisted 
that we should notify the police. He made an 
awful scene, then the valet chipped in, and from 
what he said I knew he meant mischief. I didn ’t 
dare trust Gerry with the truth, so I let him send 
a note to the police. They came round and 
asked a lot of questions and went away again, 
so I thought we ’d heard the last of it and came 


'e6o THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


up here. Gerry wouldnT come. He’s gone off 
to Baden-Baden on some new cure. 

‘‘About a week ago the Chief Magistrate at 
Cleves, who is an old friend of ours, motored 
over, and after a lot of talk, blurted out that I 
was to consider myself under arrest, and that an 
officer and a detachment of men from Goch were 
coming over to guard the house. The magis- 
trate man would have told me anything I wanted 
to know, but he knew nothing: he simply car- 
ried out his orders. Then the lieutenant and 
his men arrived, and since that time I have been 
a prisoner in the house and grounds. I was 
terribly scared about Hes until Grundt arrived 
suddenly, two nights ago, and I saw at once 
by his face that Hes was still at large. But, 
Francis, that Clubfoot man came here to catch 
Des . . . and he has simply walked into the 
trap.” 

“And Desmond?” I asked. “What is Club- 
foot going to do about him?”^ 

“He was with Des for about an hour in his 
room, and I heard him tell Schmalz he would 
‘try again’ after dinner. Oh, Francis, I am 
frightened of that man . . . not a word has he 
said to me about my knowing Desmond — ^not a 
word about my harboring Des in Berlin . . . 
but he knows everything, and he watches me 
the whole time.” 


FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE 261 


I glanced througli the open door into the hall. 
The candles still burnt on the dinner-table, 
where Clubfoot and the officer sat conversing. 

‘‘I have been here long enough,’’ I said. 
‘‘But before I go, I want you to answer one or 
two questions, Monica. Will you?” 

“Yes, Francis,” she said, raising her eyes to 
mine. 

“What time is the shoot to-morrow?” 

“At ten o’clock.” 

“Are Grundt and Schmalz going?” 

“Yes.” 

“You too?” 

“Yes.” 

“Could you get back by 12.30?” 

“Not alone. One of them is always with me 
out of doors.” 

“Could you meet me alone anywhere outside 
at that time?” 

“There is a quarry outside a village called 
Quellenburg . . . it is on the edge of our pre- 
serves . . . just off the road. We ought to be 
as far as that by twelve. If it is necessary, I 
will try and give them the slip and hide in one 
of the caves there. Then, when you came, if 
you whistled I could come out.” 

“Good. That will do excellently. We will 
arrange it so. Now, another question , . . how 
many soldiers have vou here?” 


^(5^ THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


‘‘Sixteen.’’ 

‘ ‘ Are they all going beating ? ’ ’ 

“Oh, no! Only ten of them. The other six 
and the sergeant remain behind.” 

“Have you a car here?” 

“No, but Grundt has one.” 

“How many servants will there be in the 
house to-morrow?” 

“Only Johann, the butler, and the maids . . . 
a woman cook and two girls.” 

“Can you contrive to have Johann out of 
the house between 10 and 12.30 to-morrow. 

“Yes, I can send him to Cleves with a note.” 

“The maids too?” 

“Yes, the maids too.” 

“Good. Now will you do one thing mor6 — • 
the hardest of all? I want you to send a mes- 
sage to Desmond. Can you arrange it?” 

‘ ‘ Tell me what your message is, and I may be 
able to answer you.” 

“I want you to tell him that he must at all 
costs contrive to keep Grundt from going to that 
shoot to-morrow . . . at any rate between ten 
and twelve. He must manage to let Grundt be- 
lieve that he is going to tell him where Grundt 
may find what he is after . . . but he must keep 
him in suspense during those hours.” 

“And after?” 

“There will be no after,” I said. 


FRANCIS TAKES UP THE NARRATIVE 263 


“I will see that Des gets your message,’^ 
Monica replied, **for I will take it myself/’ 

‘‘No, Monica,” I said, “I don’t want . . 

“Francis,” . . . she spoke almost in a whis- 
per . . . “my life in this country is over,” . . . 
and she touched her widow’s weeds. . . . “Karl 
was killed at Predeal three weeks ago. . . . You 
know as well as I do that I am involved in this 
affair as much as you and Des . . . and I will 
share the risk if only you will take me away with 
you . . . that is if you ...” She faltered. 

I heard the chairs scrape in the comer of the 
hall where the dinner-party was breaking up. 

“The Frau Grafin has only to command,” I 
said. “The Frau Grafin knows I have been 
waiting for years. ...” 

Clubfoot was crossing towards the open door. 

“. . . I never expected to find the Frau Grafin 
so gracious. ... I had never hoped that the 
Frau Grafin would be willing to do so much for 
me ; the Frau Grafin has made me very happy.” 

Clubfoot stood on the threshold and listened 
to my halting speech. 

“You can bring your things in when you come 
to-morrow . . .” Monica said. “The keeper 
will tell you what time you must be here.” 

Then she dismissed me, but as I went I heard 
her say: “Herr Doktor! Can I have a word 
with you?” 


CHAPTEE XVm 


I GO ON WITH THE STOEY ^ 

I WAS in the billiard-room of the Castle, a 
dusty place, obviously little used, for it 
smelt of damp. A fire was burning in the 
grate, however, and on a table in the corner, 
which was littered with papers, stood a dispatch 
box. 

Clubfoot wore a dinner-coat and, as he 
laughed, his white expanse of shirt-front heaved 
to the shaking of his deep chest. For a moment, 
however, I had little thought of him or the ugly- 
looking Browning he held in his fist. My ears 
were strained for any sound that might betray 
Francis’ presence in the garden. But all re- 
mained silent as the grave. 

Clubfoot, still chuckling audibly, walked over 
to me. I thought he was going to shoot me, he 
came so straight and so fast, but it was only to 
get behind me and shut the door, driving me, 
as he did so, farther into the room. 

264 


I GO ON WITH THE STORY 265 


The door by which he had entered stood open. 
Without taking his eyes off me or deflecting his 
weapon from its aim, he called out : 

^‘Schmalz!” 

A light step resounded, and the one-armed 
lieutenant tripped into the room. When he saw 
me, he stopped dead. Then he softly began to 
circle round me with a mincing step, murmur- 
ing to himself : ‘ ‘ So ! So ! ’ ’ 

‘‘Good evening. Dr. Semlin!’’ he said in Eng- 
lish. ‘‘Say, I’m mighty glad to see you! Well, 
Okewood, dear old boy, here we are again. 
What? Herr Julius Zimmermann . . and 
he broke into German, “es freut michV* 

I could have killed him where he stood, 
maimed though he was, for his fluency in the 
American and English idiom alone. 

“Search him, Schmalz!” commanded Club- 
foot curtly. 

Schmalz ran the fingers of his one arm over 
my pockets, flinging my portfolio on the billiard- 
table towards Clubfoot, and the other articles as 
they came to light . . . my pistol, watch, cigar- 
ette-case and so forth . . . on to a leather 
lounge against the wall. In his search he 
brushed me with his severed stump . . . ugh, 
it was horrible ! 

Clubfoot had snatched up the portfolio and 
hastily examined it. He shook the contents out 


266 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


on the billiard-table and examined them care- 
fully. 

‘‘Not there!’’ he said. “Run him upstairs, 
and we’ll strip him,” he ordered; “and let not 
onr clever young friend forget that I’m behind 
him with my little toy!” 

Schmalz gripped me by the collar, spitefully 
digging his knuckles into my neck, and pro- 
pelled me out of the room . . . almost into the 
arms of Monica. 

She screamed and, turning, fled away down 
the passage. Clubfoot laughed noisily, but I 
reflected mournfully that in my present sorry 
plight, unwashed and unshaven, in filthy clothes, 
haled along like a common pickpocket, even my 
own mother would not have recognized me. 

There was a degrading scene in the bedroom 
to which they dragged me, where the two men 
stripped me to the skin and pawed over every 
single article of clothing I possessed. Physically 
and mentally, I cowered in my nudity before the 
unwholesome gaze of these two sinister cripples. 
Of all my experiences in Germany, I still look 
back upon that as almost my worst ordeal. 

Of course, they found nothing, search as they 
might, and presently they flung my clothes back 
at me and bade me get dressed again, “for you 
and I, young man,” said Clubfoot, with his 
glinting smile, “have got to have a little talk!” 


I GO ON WITH THE STORY 267 

When I was once more clothed — 

‘‘You can leave us, Schmalz!’^ commanded 
Clubfoot, “and send up the sergeant when I 
ring : he shall look after this tricky Englishman 
whilst we are at dinner with our charming 
hostess.’’ 

Schmalz went out and left us alone. Clubfoot 
lighted a cigar. He smoked in silence for a few 
minutes. I said nothing, for really there was 
nothing for me to say. They hadn’t got their 
precious document, and it was not likely they 
would ever recover it now. I feared greatly that 
Francis in his loyalty might make an attempt to 
rescue me, hut I hoped, whatever he did, he 
would think first of putting the document in a 
place of safety. I was more or less resigned to 
my fate. I was in their hands properly now, 
and whether they got the document or not, my 
doom was sealed. 

“I will pay you the compliment of saying, my 
dear Captain Okewood,” Clubfoot remarked in 
that urbane voice of his which always made my 
blood run cold, “that never before in my career 
have I devoted so much thought to any single 
individual, in the different cases I have handled, 
as I have to you. As an individual, you are a 
paltry thing : it is rather your remarkable good 
fortune that interests me as a philosopher of 
sorts. ... I assure you it will cause me serious 


268 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


concern to be the instrument of severing your 
really extraordinary strain of good luck. I don’t 
mind telling you, as man to man, that I have not 
yet entirely decided in my mind what to do with 
you now that I’ve got you!” 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

‘‘You’ve got me, certainly,” I replied, “but 
you would vastly prefer to have what I have 
not got.” 

“Let us not forget to be always content with 
small mercies,” answered the other, smiling 
with a gleam of his golden teeth, . . . “that is a 
favorite maxim of mine. As you truly remark, 
I would certainly prefer the . . . the jewel to 
the infinitely less precious and . . . interesting 
. . . casket. But what I have, I hold. And I 
have you . . . and your accomplice as well.” 

“I have no accomplice,” I denied stoutly. 

‘ ‘ Surely you forget our gracious hostess, our 
most charming Countess? Was it not thanks 
to the interest she deigned to take in your safety 
that I came here? Had it not been for that 
circumstance, I should scarcely have ventured 
to intrude upon her widowhood. ...” 

“Her widowhood?” I exclaimed. 

Clubfoot smiled again. 

“You cannot have followed the newspapers 
in your . . . retreat, my dear Captain Oke- 
wood,” he replied, “or surely you would have 


I GO ON WITH THE STORY 26 p 

read the afflicting intelligence that Count Rach- 
witz, A.D.C. to Field-Marshal von Mackensen, 
was killed by a shell that fell into the Brigade 
Headquarters where he was lunching at Predeal. 
Ah, yes,” he sighed, ‘‘our beautiful Countess is 
now a widow, alone . . he paused, then 
added, . . and unprotected ! ” 

I understood his allusion and went cold with 
fear. Why, Monica was involved in this affair 
as much as I. Surely they wouldn’t dare to 
touch her. . . . 

Clubfoot leaned forward and tapped me on 
the knee. 

“You will be sensible, Okewood,” he said con- 
fidentially. “You Ve lost. Y ou can ’t save your- 
self. Your life was forfeit from the moment you 
crossed the threshold of his Majesty’s private 
apartments . . . but you can save her/^ 

I shook his huge hand off my leg. 

“You won’t bluff me,” I answered roughly. 
“You daren’t touch the Countess Rachwitz, an 
American lady, niece of an American ambassa- 
dor, married into one of your leading families 
. . . no, Herr Doktor, you must try something 
else.” 

“Do you know why Schmalz is here?” he 
asked patiently, “and those soldiers? . . .You 
must have passed through the cordon to come 
here. Your little friend is in preventive arrest. 


2^0 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

She would be in gaol (she doesn’t know it), but 
that His Majesty was unwilling to put this 
affront on the Rachwitz family in their great 
affliction. ’ ’ 

‘‘The Countess Rachwitz has nothing what- 
ever to do with me,” . . . rather a foolish lie, I 
thought to myself too late, as I was in her 
house. 

But Clubfoot remained quite unperturbed. 

“I shall take you into my confidence, my 
dear sir,” he said, “to show that I know you to 
be stating an untruth. The Countess, on the 
contrary, is, to use a vulgar phrase, in it up to 
the neck. Thanks to the amazing imbecility of 
the Berlin police, I was not informed of your 
brief stay at the Bendler-Strasse, even after 
they were called in by the invalid American gen- 
tleman in the matter of your hasty flight when 
asked to have your passport put in order. But 
we are systematic, we Germans; we are pains- 
taking; and I set about going through every 
possible place that might afford you shelter. 

“In the course of my investigations I came 
across our mutual friend, Herr Kore. A peru- 
sal of his very business-like ledgers showed me 
that on the day following your disappearance 
from the Esplanade he had received 3,600 marks 
from a certain E.2. ... all names in his books 
were in cipher. Under the influence of my win- 


I GO ON WITH THE STORY 


271 


ning personality, Herr Kore told me all he knew ; 
I pursued my investigations and then dis- 
covered what the asinine police had omitted to 
tell me, namely, that on the date in question an 
alleged American had made a hurried flight 
from the Countess Rachwitz’s apartment in the 
Bendler-Strasse. An admirable fellow . . . Max 
or Otto, or some name like that . . . anyhow, 
he was valet to Madame ^s invalid brother, was 
able to fill in all the lacunae, and I was thus en- 
abled to draw up a very strong case against 
your well-meaning but singularly ill-advised 
hostess. By this time the lady had left Berlin 
for this charming old-world seat, and I prompt- 
ly took measures to have her placed in preven- 
tive arrest whilst I tracked you down. 

^‘You got away again. Even Jupiter nods, 
you know, my dear Captain Okewood, and I 
frankly admit I overlooked the silver badge 
which you had in your possession. I must com- 
pliment you also on your adroitness in leaving 
us that false trail to Munich. It took me in to 
the extent that I dispatched an emissary to 
hunt you down in that delightful capital, but, 
for myself, I have a certain flair in these mat- 
ters, and I thought you would sooner or later 
come to Bellevue. You will admit that I showed 
some perspicacity?’^ 

‘^You’re wasting time with all this talk.” 


272 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

Clubfoot raised a band deprecatingly. 

‘‘I take a pride in my work,” he observed 
half-apologetically. Then he added: 

‘‘You must not forget that your pretty Coun- 
tess is not an American. She is a German. She 
is also a widow. You may not know the rela- 
tions that existed between her and her late hus- 
band, but they were not, I assure you, of such 
warmth that the Rachwitz family would unduly 
mourn her loss. Do you suppose we care a fig 
for all the American ambassadors that ever left 
the States f My dear sir, I observe that you are 
still lamentably ignorant of the revolution that 
war brings into international relations. In war, 
where the national interest is concerned, the in- 
dividual is nothing. If he or she must be re- 
moved, puff ! you snuff the offender out. After- 
wards you can always pay or apologize, or do 
what is required.” 

I listened in silence ; I had no defence to offer 
in face of this deadly logic, the logic of the 
stronger man. 

Clubfoot produced a paper from his pocket. 

“Read that!” he said, tossing it over to me. 
“It is the summons for the Countess Rachwitz 
to appear before a court-martial. Date blank, 
you see. You neednT tear it up . . . IVe got 
several spare blank forms . . . one for you, 
too!” 


I GO ON WITH THE STORY 


m 


I felt my courage ebbing and my heart turn- 
ing to water. I handed him back his paper in 
silence. The booming of a dinner gong sud- 
denly swelled into the stillness of the room. 
Clubfoot rose and rang the bell. 

“Here’s my offer, Okewood!” he said. “You 
shall restore that letter to me in its integ^^ity, 
and the Countess Rachwitz shall go free pro- 
vided she leaves this country and does not re- 
turn. That’s my last word! Take the night to 
sleep on it ! I shall come for my answer in the 
morning.” 

A sergeant in field-gray with a rifle and fixed 
bayonet stood in the doorway. 

“I make you responsible for this man, Ser- 
geant,” said Clubfoot, “until I return in an 
hour or so. Food will be sent up for him and 
you will personally assure yourself that no 
message is conveyed to him by that or any other 
means. ’ ’ 


I had washed, I had brushed my clothes, I 
had dined, and I sat in silence by the table, in 
the most utter dejection of spirit, I think, into 
which it is possible for a man to fall. I was so 
totally crushed by the disappointment of the 
evening that I don’t think I pondered much 


274 'THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

about my own fate at all. But my thoughts 
were busy with Monica. My life was my own, 
and I knew I had a lien on my brother’s if 
thereby our mission might be carried through 
to the end. But had I the right to sacrifice 
Monica? 

And then the unexpected happened. The 
door opened, and she came in, Schmalz behind 
her. He dismissed the sergeant with a word 
of caution to see that the sentries round the 
house were vigilant, and followed the man out, 
leaving Monica and me alone. 

The girl stopped the torrent of self-reproach 
that rose to my lips with a pretty gesture. She 
was pale, but she held her head as high as ever. 

‘^Schmalz has given me five minutes alone 
with you, Des,” she said, ^Ho plead with you 
for my life, that you may betray your trust. 
No, don’t speak . . . there is no time to waste 
in words. I have a message for you from Fran- 
cis. . . . Yes, I have seen him here, this very 
night. . . . He says you must contrive at all 
costs to l^eep Grundt from going to the shoot at 
ten o’clock to-morrow, and to detain him with 
you from ten to twelve. That is all I know 
about it. . . . But Francis has planned some- 
thing, and you and I have got to trust him. Now, 
listen ... I shall tell Clubfoot I have pleaded 
with you and that you show signs of weakening. 


I GO ON WITH THE STORY 


275 


Say nothing to-night, temporize with him when 
he comes for his answer in the morning, and 
then send for him at a quarter to ten, when he 
will he leaving the house with the others. The 
rest I leave to you. Good night, Des, and cheer 
up!’^ . . . 

‘^But, Monica,^’ I cried, ‘‘what about youT’ 

She reddened deliciously under her pallor. 

“Des,^’ she replied happily, “we are allies 
now, we three. If all goes well, I^m coming 
with you and Francis ! ’ ’ 

With that she was gone. A few minutes after, 
a couple of soldiers arrived with Schmalz and 
took me downstairs to a dark cellar in the base- 
ment, where I was locked in for the night. 

I was dreaming of the front . . . again I 
sniffed the old familiar smells, the scent of fresh 
earth, the fetid odor of death; again I heard 
outside the trench the faint rattle of tools, the 
low whispers of our wiring party; again I saw 
the Verey lights soaring skyward and revealing 
the desolation of the battlefield in their glare. 
Someone was shaking me by the shoulder. It 
was my servant come to wake me ... I must 
have fallen asleep. Was it stand-to so soon? 
I sat up and rubbed my eyes and awoke to the 
anguish of another day. 


276 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


The sergeant stood at the cellar door, framed 
in the bright morning light. 

‘‘You are to come upstairs!’’ he said. 

He took me to the billiard-room, where Club- 
foot, sleek and washed and shaved, sat at the 
writing-table in the sunshine, opening letters 
and sipping coffee. A clock on a bracket above 
his head pointed to eight. 

“You wish to speak to me, I believe,” he said 
carelessly, running his eye over a letter in his 
hand. 

“You must give me a little more time, Herr 
Doktor,” I said. “I was worn out last night 
and I could not look at things in their proper 
light. If you could spare me a few hours 
more. ...” 

I put a touch of pleading into my voice, which 
struck him at once. 

“I am not unreasonable, my dear Captain 
Okewood,” he replied, “but you will understand 
that I am not to be trifled with, so I give you 
fair warning. I will give you until ...” 

“It is eight o’clock now,” I interrupted. “I 
tell you what, give me until ten. Will that do ? ” 

Clubfoot nodded assent. 

“Take this man upstairs to my bedroom,” he 
ordered the sergeant. ‘ ‘ Stay with him while he 
has his breakfast, and bring him back here at 
ten o’clock. And tell Schmidt to leave my car 


I GO ON WITH THE STORY ^7/ 

at the door: he needn^t wait, as he is to heat: 
I will drive myself to the shoot. ’ ^ 

I don’t really remember what happened after 
that. I swallowed some breakfast, hut I had no 
idea what I was eating, and the sergeant, who 
was a model of Prussian discipline, declined 
with a surly frown to enter into conversation 
with me. My morale was very low: when I 
look back upon that morning I think I must 
have been pretty near the breaking-point. 

As I sat and waited I heard the house in a 
turmoil of preparation for the shoot. There 
was the sound of voices, of heavy hoots in the 
hall, of wheels and horses in the yard without. 
Then the noises died away and all was still. 
Shortly afterwards, the clock pointing to ten, 
the sergeant escorted me downstairs again to 
the billiard-room. 

Grundt was still sitting there. A hot wave of 
anger drove the blood into my cheeks as I looked 
at him, fat and soft and so triumphant at his 
victory. The sight of him, however, gave me 
the tonic I needed. My nerve was shaken bad- 
ly, hut I was determined it must answer to this 
last strain, to play this uncouth fish for two 
hours. After that ... if nothing happened . . . 

Clubfoot sent the sergeant away. 

‘‘I can look after him myself now,” he said, 
in a blithe tone that betrayed his conviction of 


27 S THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


success. So the sergeant saluted and left the 
room, his footsteps echoing down the passages 
like the leaden feet of Destiny, relentl^^ss, 
exorable. 


CHAPTER XIX 


WE HAVE A BECKONING WITH CLUBFOOT 

I LOOKED at Clubfoot. I must play biTu 
with caution, with method too. 

Only by acting on a most exact system 
could I hope to hold him in that room for two 
hours. I had four points to argue with bi Tu and 
I would devote half an hour to each of them by 
the clock on the bracket above his head. If only 
I could keep him confident in his victory, I 
might hope to prevent him finding out that I 
was playing with him . . . but two hours is a 
long time ... it would be a near thing. 

One point in my favor . . . my manner 
gave him the assurance of success from the 
start. There was nothing counterfeit about my 
tone of humility, for in truth I was very near 
despair. I was making this last etfort at the 
bidding of my brother, but I felt it to be a for- 
lorn hope : in my heart of hearts I knew I was 
down and out. 


279 


THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


So I went straight to the point and told Club- 
foot that I was beaten, that he should have his 
paper. But there were difficulties about the 
execution of both sides of the bargain. We had 
deceived one another. What mutual guaran- 
tees could we exchange that would give each of 
us the assurance of fair play! 

Clubfoot settled this point in characteristic 
fashion. He protested his good faith elabo- 
rately, but the gist of his remarks was that he 
held the cards and that, consequently, it was 
he who must be trusted, whilst I furnished the 
guarantee. 

WThilst we were discussing this point the clock 
chimed the half-hour. 

I switched the conversation to Monica. I 
was not at all concerned about myself, I said, 
but I must feel sure in my mind that no ill should 
befall her. To this Clubfoot replied that I 
might set my mind at ease: the moment the 
document was in his hands he would give orders 
for her release : I should be there and might see 
it done myself. 

What guarantee was there, I asked, that 
she would not be detained before she reached 
the frontier? 

Clubfoot was restless. With his eye on the clock 
but in a placid voice he again protested that his 
word was the sole guarantee he could offer. 


A RECKONING WITH CLUBFOOT 281 


We discussed this too. My manner was ear- 
nest and nervous, I know, and I think he en- 
joyed playing with me. I told him frankly that 
his reputation belied his protestations of good 
faith. At this he laughed and cynically admit- 
ted that this was quite possibly the case. 

‘‘Nevertheless, it is I who give the guaran- 
tee,’’ he said in a tone that brooked no contra- 
diction. 

The clock struck eleven. One hour to go ! 

‘ ‘ Come, Okewood, ’ ’ he added good-naturedly, 
^‘we waste time. Up to this you’ve had all the 
sport, you know. You wouldn’t have me miss 
the first day’s shooting I’ve had this year. 
Wkere have you got this letter of ours ? ’ ’ 

He was an extraordinary man. To hear him 
address me, you would never have supposed 
that he was sending me to my death. He ap- 
peared to have forgotten this detail. It meant 
so little to him that he probably had. 

I turned to my third point. He made things 
very hard for me, I said, but I was the van- 
quished and must give way. The trouble was 
that the document was still in two portions and 
neither half was here. 

“You indicate where the halves are hidden,” 
sai d Clubfoot promptly. ‘ ‘ I will accompany you 
to the hiding-places and you will hand them to 
me.” 


282 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


‘‘But they are nowhere near here/^ I replied. 

“Then where are they?’’ answered Clubfoot 
impatiently. “Come, I am waiting and it’s 
getting late!” 

“It will take several days to recover both 
portions,” I muttered unwillingly. 

“That does not matter,” retorted the other; 
“there is no particular hurry . . . now!” 

And he smiled grimly. 

I dared not raise my eyes to the clock, for I 
felt the German’s gaze on me. An intuitive in- 
stinct told me that his suspicions had been 
awakened by my reluctance. I was very nearly 
at the end of my resources. 

Would the clock never strike? 

“I tell you frankly, Herr Doktor,” I said in 
a voice that trembled with anxiety, “I cannot 
leave the Countess unprotected whilst we travel 
together to the hiding-places of the document. I 
only feel sure of her safety whilst she is near 
me. ...” 

Clubfoot bent his brows at me. 

“WTiat do you suggest then?” he said very 
sternly. 

“You go and recover the two halves at the 
places I indicate,” I stammered out, “and . . .” 

A faint whirr and the silver chime rang out 
twice. 

Half an hour more ! 


A RECKONING WITH CLUBFOOT 283 


How still the house was! I could hear the 
clock ticking — ^no, that thudding must be my 
heart. My wits failed me, my mind had become 
a blank, my throat was dry with fear. 

“IVe wasted an hour and a half over you, 
young man,’^ said Clubfoot suddenly, ‘‘and iUs 
time that this conversation was brought to a 
close. I warn you again that I am not to be 
trifled with. The situation is perfectly clear: 
it rests with you whether the Countess Eachwitz 
goes free or is court-martialled this afternoon 
at Cleves and shot this evening. Your sugges- 
tion is absurd. Ifll be reasonable with you. We 
will both stay here. I will wire for the two por- 
tions of the letter to be fetched at the places you 
indicate, and as soon as I hold the entire letter 
in my hands the Countess will be driven to the 
frontier. I will allow her butler here to accom- 
pany her and he can return and assure you that 
she is in safety. 

He stretched out his hand and pulled a block 
of telegraph forms towards him. 

“Where shall we find the two halves T’ he 
said. 

“One is in Holland, ’’ I murmured. 

He looked up quickly. 

“If you dare to play me false . . . 

He broke off when he saw my face. 

The room was going round with me. My 


284 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 

hands felt cold as ice. I was struggling for the 
mastery over myself, but I felt my body sway- 
ing. 

exclaimed Clubfoot musingly, ‘‘that 
would be Semlin’s half. ... I might have 
known. . . . Well, never mind, Schmalz can 
take my car and fetch it. He can be back by 
to-morrow. Where is he to go U’ 

“The other half is in Berlin,’’ I said desper- 
ately. My voice sounded to me like a third per- 
son speaking. 

“That’s simpler,” replied Clubfoot. “Ten 
minutes to twelve now ... if I wire at once, 
that half should be here by midnight. . . .I’ll 
get the message off immediately. ...” 

He looked up at me, pencil in hand. 

It was the end. I had kept faith with Francis 
to the limit of my powers, but now my resist- 
ance was broken. He had failed me . . . not me, 
but Monica, rather. ... I could not save her 
now. Like some nightmare film, the crowded 
hours of the past few weeks flashed past my 
eyes, a jostling procession of figures — Semlin 
with his blue lips and livid face, Schratt 
with her bejewelled hands, the Jew Kore, 
Haase with his bullet head, Francis, sadly 
musing on the cafe verandah . . . and Monica, 
all in white, as I saw her that night at the Es- 
planade . . . my thoughts always came back to 


A RECKONING WITH CLUBFOOT -283 

her, a white and pitiful figure in some dusty 
courtyard at lamplight facing a row of levelled 
rifles. . . . 

am waitingl’^ 

Clubfoot ^s voice broke stridently upon the 
silence. 

Should I tell him the truth now? 

It was three minutes to the hour. 

‘ ‘ Come ! The two addresses ! ^ ' 

I would keep faith to the last. 

‘ ^ Herr Doktor ! ’ ’ I faltered. 

He dashed the pencil down on the table and 
sprang to his feet. He caught me by the lapels 
of my coat and shook me in an iron grip. 

‘^The addresses, you dog!’’ he said. 

The clock whirred faintly. There was a knock 
at the door. 

‘‘Come in!” roared Clubfoot and resumed 
his seat. 

The clock was chiming twelve. 

An officer stepped in briskly and saluted. 

It was Francis ! . . . Francis, freshly shaved, 
his moustache neatly trimmed, a monocle in his 
eye, in a beautifully waisted grey military over- 
coat, one white-gloved hand raised in salute to 
his helmet. 

“Hauptmann von Salzmann!” . . . he in- 
troduced himself, clicking his heels and bowing 
to Clubfoot, who glared at him, frowning at the 


286 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


interruption. He spoke with the clipped, minc- 
ing utterance of the typical Prussian officer. ‘‘I 
am looking for Herr Leutnant Schmalz,” he 
said. 

‘‘He is not in,’’ answered Clubfoot in a surly 
voice. “He is out and I am busy . . . I do not 
wish to be disturbed.” 

“As Schmalz is out,” the officer returned 
suavely, advancing to the desk, “I must troiibie 
you for an instant, I fear. I have been sent over 
from Goch to inspect the guard here. But I 
find no guard . . . there is not a man in the 
place.” 

Clubfoot angrily heaved his unwieldy bulk 
from his chair. 

“Gott im Himmel!” he cried savagely. “It 
is incredible that I can never be left in peace. 
What the devil has the guard got to do with me? 
Will you understand that I have nothing to do 
with the guard ! There is a sergeant somewhere 
. . . curse him for a lazy scoundrel . . .I’ll 
ring ...” 

He never finished the sentence. As he turned 
his back on my brother to reach the bell in the 
wall, Francis sprang on him from behind, seiz- 
ing his bull neck in an iron grip and driving his 
knee at the same moment into that vast expanse 
of back. 

The huge German, taken by surprise, crashed 


A RECKONING WITH CLUBFOOT 287 

over backwards, my brother on top of him. 

It was so quickly done that, for the instant, I 
was dumbfounded. 

“Quick, Des, the door I my brother gasped. 
“Lock the door!’' 

The big German was roaring like a bull and 
plunging wildly under my brother’s fingers, his 
clubfoot beating a thunderous tattoo on the par- 
quet floor. In his fall Clubfoot’s left arm had 
been bent under him and was now pinioned to 
the ground by his great weight. With his free 
right arm he strove fiercely to force olf my 
brother’s fingers as Francis fought to get a 
grip on the man’s throat and choke him into 
silence. 

I darted to the door. The key was on the 
inside and I turned it in a trice. As I turned 
to go to my brother’s help my eye caught sight 
of the butt of my pistol lying where Schmalz 
had thrown it the evening before under my 
overcoat on the leather lounge. 

I snatched up the weapon and dropped by my 
brother’s side, crushing Clubfoot’s right arm to 
the ground. I thrust the pistol in his face. 

“Stop that noise!” I commanded. 

The German obeyed. 

“Better search him, Francis,” I said to my 
brother. “He probably has a Browning on him 
somewhere.” 


288 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


Francis went througli the man^s pockets, 
reaching up and putting each article as it came 
to light on the desk above him. From an inner 
breast pocket he extracted the Browning. He 
glanced at it : the magazine was full with a cart- 
ridge in the breech. 

‘^Hadn’t we better truss him upT’ Francis 
said to me. 

‘ ‘ No, ’ ^ I said. I was still kneeling on the Ger- 
man ’s arm. He seemed exhausted. His head 
had fallen back upon the ground. 

‘^Let me up, curse you !’’ he choked. 

^‘No!^’ I said again and Francis turned and 
looked at me. 

Each of us knew what was in the other’s naind, 
my brother and I. We were thinking of a hand- 
clasp we had exchanged on the hanks of the 
Rhine. 

I was about to speak but Francis checked me. 
He was trembling all over. I could feel his 
elbow quiver where it touched mine. 

^^No, Des, please . . .’’he pleaded, ^Het me 
. . . this is my show. ...” 

Then, in a voice that vibrated with suppressed 
passion, he spoke swiftly to Clubfoot. 

^^Take a good look at me, Grundt,” he said 
sternly. ‘^You don’t know me, do you? I am 
Francis Okewood, brother of the man who has 
brought you to your fall. You don’t know me. 


A RECKONING WITH CLUBFOOT 

but you knew some of my friends, I think. Jack 
Tracy? Do you remember him? And Herbert 
Arbuthnot? Ah, you knew him, too. And Philip 
Brewster? You remember him as well, do you? 
No need to ask you what happened to poor 
Philip!’^ 

The man on the floor answered nothing, but 
I saw the color very slowly fade from his cheeks. 

My brother spoke again. 

‘‘There were four of us after that letter, as 
you knew, Grundt, and three of us are dead. 
But you never got me. I was the fourth man, 
the unknown quantity in all your elaborate cal- 
culations . . . and it seems to me I spoiled your 
reckoning ... I and this brother of mine . . . 
an amateur at the game, Grundt!^’ 

Still Clubfoot was silent, but I noticed a bead 
of perspiration tremble on his forehead, then 
trickle down his ashen cheeks and drop splash- 
ing to the floor. 

Francis continued in the same deep, relentless 
voice. 

“I never thought I should have to soil my 
hands by ridding the world of a man like you, 
Grundt, but it has come to it and you have to 
die. I’d have killed you in hot blood when I 
first came in but for Jack and Herbert and the 
others . . . for their sake you had to know 
who is your executioner.” 


290 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


My brother raised the pistol. As he did so 
the man on the floor, by a tremendous effort 
of strength, rose erect to his Imees, flinging me 
headlong. Then there was a hot burst of flame 
close to my cheek as I lay on the floor, $ deaf- 
ening report, a thud and a sickening gurgle. 

Something twitched a little on the ground and 
then lay still. 

We rose to our feet together. 

‘‘Des,’’ said my brother unsteadily, ^4t seems 
rather like murder. ’ ’ 

‘‘No, Francis,’’ I whispered back, “it was 
justice I” 


CHAPTER XX 


CHARLEMAGNE RIDE 

T he hands of the clock pointed to a quarter 
past twelve. Funny, how my eyes kept 
coming back to that clock ! There was a 
smell of warm gunpowder in the room, and the 
autumn sunshine, struggling feebly through the 
window, caught the blue edges of a little haze of 
smoke that hung lazily in the air by the desk 
in the corner. How close the room was ! And 
how that clock face seemed to stare at me! I 
felt very sick. . . . 

Lord! What a draught! A gust of icy air 
was raging in my face. The room was still 
swaying to and fro. . . . 

I was in the front seat of a car beside Francis, 
who was driving. We were fairly flying along a 
broad and empty road, the tall poplars with 
which it was lined scudding away into the van- 
ishing landscape as we whizzed by. The surface 
was terrible, and the car pitched this way and 


THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

that as we tore along. But Francis had her well 
in hand. He sat at the wheel, very cool and de- 
liberate and very grave, still in his officer’s uni- 
form, and his eyes had a cold glint that told me 
he was keyed up to top pitch. 

We slackened speed a fraction to negotiate a 
turn off to the right down a side road. We 
seemed to take that corner on two wheels. A 
thin church spire protruded from the trees in 
the center of the group of houses which we were 
approaching so furiously. The village was all 
hut deserted: everybody seemed to be indoors 
at their midday meal, but Francis slowed down 
and ran along the dirty street at a demure pace. 
The village passed, he jammed down the accel- 
erator and once more the car sprang forward. 

The country was flat as a pancake, but pres- 
ently the fields fell away a bit from the road 
with boulders and patches of gorse here and 
there. The next moment we were slackening 
speed. We drew up by a rough track which led 
off the road and vanished into a tangle of stunt- 
ed trees and scrub growing across the yellow 
face of a sand-pit. 

Francis motioned me to get out, and then 
sprang to the ground himself, leaving the engine 
throbbing. His face was gray and set. 

‘‘Stay here!” he whispered to me. “You’ve 
got your pistol ? Good. If anybody attempts to 


CHARLEMAGNE’S RIDE 




interfere with you, shoot ! ’ ’ He dashed into the 
tangle and was swallowed up. I heard a whis- 
tle, and a whistle in answer, and a minute later 
he appeared again helping Monica through the 
thick undergrowth. 

Monica looked as pretty as a picture in her 
dark green shooting suit and her muffler. She 
was as excited as a child at its first play. 

car!’’ she exclaimed. ‘‘Oh, Francis, I’ll 
sit beside you!” 

My brother glanced at his watch. 

“Twenty to one!” he murmured. He had a 
hunted look on his face. Monica saw it and it 
sobered her. 

They got up in front, and I sat in the body of 
the car. 

“Hang on to that!” said Francis, handing 
me over a leather case. I recognized it at a 
glance. It was Clubfoot’s dispatch-box. Fran- 
cis was thorough in everything. 

Once more we dashed out along the desolate 
country roads. We saw hardly a soul. Houses 
were few and far between and, save for an occa- 
sional graybeard hoeing in the wet fields or an 
old woman hobbling along the road, the country- 
side seemed dead. In the cold air the engine 
ran splendidly, and Francis got every ounce of 
horse-power out of it. 

On we rushed, the wind in our ears, the cold 


294 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 

air in our faces, until we found ourselves racing 
along an avenue of old trees that led straight as 
an arrow right into the heart of the forest. It 
was as silent as the grave : the air was dank and 
chill and the trees dripped sorrowfully into the 
brinuning ruts of the road. 

We whizzed past many tracks leading into 
the depths of the forest, but it was not until the 
car had eaten up some five kilometres of the 
main road that Francis slowed to a halt. He 
consulted a map he pulled from his pocket, then 
glanced at his watch with puckered brow. 

“I had hoped to take the car into the forest, ’’ 
he said, ^‘but the roads are so soft we shan’t get 
a yard. Still we can but try. ’ ’ 

We went forward again, very slowly, to where 
a track ran otf to the left. It was badly 
ploughed up, and the ruts were fully a foot 
deep. Monica and I got out to lighten the car, 
and Francis ran her in. But he hadn’t gone five 
yards before the car was bogged up to the axles. 

We’ll have to leave it,” he said, jumping out. 
“It’s ten minutes to two ... we haven’t a 
second to lose.” 

He pulled a cloth cap from the pocket of his 
military overcoat, then stripped otf the coat, 
showing his ordinary clothes underneath, and 
very shiny black field-boots up to his knees. He 
put his helmet in the overcoat and made a roll 


CHARLEMAGNE’S RIDE ^p5 

of it, tucking it under his arm, and then donned 
his cap. 

‘‘Now,^’ he said, We ’ll have to run for it, 
Monica, I’m afraid: we must reach our cover 
while the light lasts or I shan’t be able to find it 
and it will be dark in these woods in about two 
hours from now. Are you ready?” 

We struck off the track into the forest. There 
was not much undergrowth, and the trees were 
not planted very close, so our way was not im- 
peded. We jogged on over a carpet of wet 
leaves, stumbling over the roots of the trees, 
tearing our clothes on the brambles, bringing 
down showers of raindrops from the branches 
of pine or fir we brushed on our headlong course. 
Now a squirrel bolted up his tree, now a rabbit 
frisked back into his hole, now a soft-eyed deer 
crashed away into the bushes on our approach. 
The place was so still that it gave me confidence. 
There was not a trace of man now that we were 
away from the marks of his carts on the tracks, 
and I began to feel, in the presence of the state- 
Jy, silent trees, that at last I was safe from the 
menace that had hung over me for so long. 

We rested frequently, breathless and panting, 
a hand to the side. Monica was a marvel of 
endurance. Her boots were sopping, her skirt 
wet to the waist, her face was scratched, and 
her hair was coming down, but she never com- 


2p6 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


pJained. Frands was seemingly tireless and 
•\7as always the one to lead the way when we 
started afresh. 

It was heavy going, for at every step our feet 
sank deep in the leaves. The forest was undu- 
lating with deep hollows and steep banks, which 
tried us a good deal. It soon became evident 
that we could not keep up the pace. Monica was 
tiring visibly, and I had had about enough; 
Francis, too, seemed done up. We slackened to 
a walk. We were toiling painfully up one of 
these steep banks when Francis, who was lead- 
ing, held up his hand. 

“Charlemagne’s Eide!” he whispered as we 
came up. We looked down from the top of the 
bank and saw below us a broad forest glade, 
canopied by the thick branches of the ancient 
trees that met overhead, and leading up a slope, 
narrowing as it went, to a path that lost itself 
among the shadows that were falling fast upon 
the forest. 

Francis clambered down the bank and we 
followed. Twilight reigned below in the glade 
under the lofty roof of branches and our feet 
rustled softly as we trod the leaves underfoot. 
It was a ghostly place, and Monica clutched my 
arm as we went quickly after Francis, who, 
striding rapidly ahead, threatened to be 
swallowed up in the shadows of the autumn 


CHARLEMAGNE’S RIDE 


297 


evening. He led ns up the slope and along the 
narrow path. A path struck off it, and he took 
it. It led us into a thicker part of the forest 
than we had yet struck, where there were great 
boulders protruding from the dripping bushes, 
and brambles grew so thick that in places they 
obscured the track. 

The forest sloped up again, and in front of us 
was a steep bank, its sides dotted with great 
rocks and a tangle of brambles and undergrowth. 
Francis stooped between two boulders at the 
foot of the slope, then turning and beckoning 
us to follow, disappeared. Monica went in after 
him, and I came last. We were in a kind of nar- 
row entrance, scooped out of the earth between 
the rocks, and it led down to a broad chamber, 
which had apparently been dug beneath some of 
the boulders, for, stretching out my hand, I 
found the roof was rock and damp to the touch. 

Francis and Monica were standing in this 
chamber as I came down. Directly I entered I 
knew why they stood so still. A glimmer of 
light came from the farther end of the cave, and 
a strange sound, a sort of strangled sobbing, 
reached our ears. 

I crept forward in the dark in the direction of 
the light. My outstretched hands came upon a 
low opening. I stooped and, crawling round a 
rock, saw another chamber illuminated by a gut- 


2Q8 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

tering candle stuck by its wax to the earthen 
wall. On the floor a man was lying, sobbing as 
though his heart would break. He was wearing 
some kind of military great-coat with a yellow 
stripe running down the back. 

“Pst!” I called to him, drawing my pistol 
from my pocket. As I did so, Francis behind 
me touched my arm to let me know he was there. 

‘ ^ Pst I ” I called again louder. 

The man swung round on to his knees with a 
sudden, frightened spring. When he saw my 
pistol, he jerked his hands above his head. Dirty 
and unshaven, with the tears all wet on his face, 
he looked a woe-begone and tragic figure. 

“Kamerad! Kamerad!” he muttered 
stupidly at me. “Napoo! Kaput! Englander!” 

I gazed at the stranger, hardly able to believe 
my ears. That trench jargon in this place! 

“Are you English?” I asked him. 

At the sound of my voice he stared about him 
wildly. 

“Ay, I be English, zur,” he replied with a 
strong West Country burr, “God help me!” 
And, heedless of me and my pistol, he covered 
his face with his hands and burst into a wild fit 
of sobbing again, rocking himself to and fro in 
his grief. 

“Go back to Monica!” I whispered to Fran- 
cis. “I’ll see to this fellow!” 


CHARLEMAGNE^S RIDE 


299 


I managed to pacify him presently. Habit is 
a tenacious ruler and, grotesque figures though 
we were, the ‘‘zur^’ he had addressed to me 
brought out the officer in me. I talked to him 
as I would have done to one of my own men, 
and he quieted down at last and looked up at 
me. 

He was only a lad — I could tell that by the 
clearness of his skin and the brightness of his 
eyes — ^but his face was wan and wasted, and at 
the first glance he looked like a man of forty. 
Under his great-coat, which was German, he was 
clad in filthy rags which once had been a khaki 
uniform, as the cut — and nothing else — ^revealed. 

He told me his simple story in his soft Somer- 
setshire accent, just the plain tale of the fate 
that has overtaken thousands of our fellow- 
countrymen since the war began. His name was 
Maggs, Sapper Ebenezer Maggs, of the Royal 
Engineers, and he was captured near Mons in 
August, 1914, when out laying a line with a 
party. With a long train of British prisoners — 

* ‘ zum of ’em was terrible bad, zur, dying, as you 
might say” — he had been marched off to a town 
and paraded to the railway station through 
streets thronged with jeering German soldiery. 
In cattle trucks, the fit, the wounded, the dying 
and the dead herded together, without food or 
water, they had made their journey into Ger- 


300 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


many with hostile mobs at every station, once 
the frontier was past, brutal men and shrieking 
women, to whom not even the dying were sacred. 

It was a terrible tale, that lost nothing of its 
horror from the simple, unadorned style of this 
West Country farmer ^s son. He had been one 
of the ragged, emaciated hand of British prison- 
ers of war who had shivered through that first 
long winter in the starvation camp of Friedrich- 
sfeld, near Wesel. For t^vo years he had en- 
dured the filthy food, the neglect, the harsh 
treatment, then a resourceful Belgian friend, 
whom he called John, in happier days a contra- 
band runner on this very frontier, had shown 
him a means to escape. Five days before they 
had left the camp and separated, agreeing to 
meet at Charlemagne’s Ride in the forest and 
try to force the frontier together. ‘‘John” had 
never come. For twenty-four hours Maggs had 
waited in vain, then his courage had forsaken 
him, and he had crept to that hole in his grief. 

I went and fetched Francis and Monica. 
Maggs shrunk back as they came in. 

“I bean’t fit cumpany for no lady, zur,” he 
whispered to me, “I be that durty, fair crawling 
I be. . . .We couldn’t keep clean nohow in that 
camp!” 

All the good soldier’s horror of dirt was in 
his voice. 


CHARLEMAGNE^S RIDE 301 

‘‘That^s all right, Maggs,’’ I answered sooth- 
ingly, ‘ ‘ she ’ll understand ! ’ ’ 

We sat down on the floor in the light of Sap- 
per Maggs’ candle, and Francis and I reviewed 
our situation. The cave we were in ... an old 
smuggler’s cache . . . was where Francis had 
spent several days during his different attempts 
to get across the frontier. The border line was 
only about a quarter of a mile distant and ran 
right through the forest. There was no live- 
wire fencing in the forest, such as the Germans 
have erected along the frontier between Holland 
and Belgium. The frontier was guarded by 
patrols. These patrols were posted four men 
to every two hundred yards along the line 
through the forest, so that two men, patrolling 
in pairs, covered a hundred yards apiece. 

It was now half -past five in the evening. We 
both agreed that we should certainly make the 
attempt to cross the frontier that night. Francis 
nudged me, indicating the sapper with his eyes. 

‘‘Maggs,” I said, ‘‘we are all in a bad way, 
but our case is more desperate than yours. I 
shall not tell you more than this, that, if we are 
caught, any of us three, we shall be shot, and 
anyone caught with us will fare the same. If 
you will take my advice, you will leave us and 
start off by yourself : the worst that can happen 
to you is to be sent back to your camp. You 


S02 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

will be punished for running away, but you 
won’t lose your life!” 

Sapper Maggs shook his yellow head. 

“I’ll stay,” he answered stolidly, “it’s more 
comfortable-like for us four to ’old together, 
and it’s a better protection for the lady. I 
bean’t af ear’d of no Gers, I bean’t! I’U go 
along o’ yew officers and the lady, if yew don’t 
mind, zur!” 

So it was settled, and we four agreed to unite 
forces. Before we set out Francis wanted to go 
and reconnoitre. I thought he had done more 
than his share that day, and said so. But Fran- 
cis insisted. 

“I know my way blindfold about the forest, 
old man,” he said, “it’ll be far safer for me than 
for you. I’ll leave you the map and mark the 
route you are to follow, so that you can find the 
way if anything happens to me. If I’m not back 
by midnight, you ought certainly not to wait any 
longer, but make the attempt by yourselves. ’ ’ 

My brother handed me back the document and 
went over the route we were to follow on the 
map. Then he deposited his bundle in the cave 
and declared himself ready. 

“And don’t forget old Clubfoot’s box,” he 
said by way of a parting injunction. 

Monica took him out to the entrance of our 
refuge. She was dabbing her eyes with her 


CHARLEMAGNE’S RIDE 


303 


handkerchief when she returned. To divert her 
thoughts, I questioned her about the events that 
had led to my rescue, and she told me how, at 
Francis’ request, she had got all the servants 
out of the Castle on ditferent pretexts. It was 
Francis who had got rid of the soldiers remain- 
ing as a guard. 

‘‘You remember the Captain of Kbpenick 
trick,” she said. “Well, Francis played it off 
on the sergeant and those six men. He slept at 
Cleves, had himself trimmed up at the barber’s, 
bought those field-boots he is wearing, and stole 
that helmet and great-coat off the pegs in the 
passage at Schmidt’s Cafe, where the officers 
always go and drink beer after morning parade. 
Then he drove to the Castle — ^he knew that the 
place would be deserted once the shoot had 
started — and told the sergeant he had been sent 
from Goch to inspect the guard. I think he is 
just splendid ! He inspected the men and cursed 
everybody up and down, and sent the sergeant 
out to the paddock with orders to drill them for 
two hours. Francis was telling me all about it 
as we came along. He says that if you can get 
hold of a uniform and hector a German enough, 
he will never call your bluff. Can you beat it ? ” 

The hours dragged wearily on. We had no 
food, and Maggs, who had eaten the last of his 
provisions twenty-four hours before — the Brit- 


304 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

ish soldier is a bad hoarder — soon consumed the 
last of my cigarettes. It was past ten o’clock 
when I heard a step outside. The next moment 
Francis came in, white and breathless. 

‘‘They’re beating the forest for us,” he pant- 
ed. “The place is full of men. I had to crawl 
the whole way there and back, and I’m soaked.” 

I pointed to Monica, who was fast asleep, and 
he lowered his voice. 

“Des,” he said, “I’ve hoped as long as I 
dared, but now I believe the game’s up. They’re 
beating the forest in a great circle, soldiers and 
police and customs men. If we set out at once 
we can reach the frontier before they get here, 
but what’s the use of that . . . every patrol is 
on the look-out for us . . . the forest seems 
ablaze with torches.” 

“We must try it, Francis,” I said. “We 
haven’t a dog’s chance if we stay here!” 

‘ ‘ I think you ’re right, ’ ’ he answered. ‘ ‘ Well, 
here ’s the plan. There’s a deep ravine that runs 
clear across the frontier. I spent an hour in it. 
They’ve built a plank bridge across the top just 
this side of the line, and the patrol comes to the 
ravine about every three minutes. It is practi- 
cally impossible to get out of sight and sound 
along that ravine in three minutes, but ...” 

“Unless we could drar the patrol’s attention 
away!” said Sapper Maggs, 


CHARLEMAGNE’S RIDE 


305 


But Francis ignored the interruption. 

. . We can at least try it. Come on, we 
must be starting ! Thank God, there ’s no moon ; 
it’s as dark as the devil outside!” 

We roused up Monica and groped our way out 
of the cave into the black and dripping forest. 
Somewhere in the distance a faint glare red- 
dened the sky. From time to time I thought I 
heard a shout, but it sounded far away. 

We crawled stealthily forward, Francis in 
front, then Monica, Maggs and I last. In a few 
minutes we were wet through, and our hands, 
blue and dead with cold, were scratched and 
torn. Our progress was interminably slow. 
Every few yards Francis raised his hand and 
we stopped. 

At last we reached the gloomy glade where, as 
Francis had told us, according to popular belief, 
the wraith of Charlemagne was still seen on the 
night of St. Hubert’s Day galloping along with 
his ghostly followers of the chase. The rustling 
of leaves caught our ears. Instantly we all lay 
prone behind a bank. 

A group of men came swinging along the 
glade. One of them was singing an ancient 
German soldier song; 

“Die Voglein im Walde 

Sie singen so schon 

In der Heimat, in der Heimat, 

Da gibt's ein Wiederseh’n.” 


3 o 6 I'HE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

‘^The relief patrol!’’ I whispered to Francis, 
as soon as they were past. 

‘‘The other lot they relieve will be back this 
way in a minute. We must get across quickly.” 
My brother stood erect, and tiptoed swiftly 
across Charlemagne’s Ride, and we followed. 

We must have crawled for an hour before we 
oame to the ravine. It was a deep, narrow ditch 
with stefp sides, full of undergrowth and bram- 
bles. Now we could hear distinctly the voices 
of men all around us, as it seemed, and to right 
and to left and in front we caught at intervals 
glimpses of red flames through the trees. We 
could only proceed at a snail’s pace lest the 
continual rustle of our footsteps should betray 
us. So each advanced a few paces in turn ; then 
we all paused, and then the next one went for- 
ward. We could no longer crawl; the under- 
growth was too thick for that ; we had to go for- 
ward bent double. 

We had progressed like this for fully half an 
hour when Francis, who was in front as usual, 
beckoned us to lie down. We all lay motionless 
among the brambles. 

Then a voice somewhere above us said in 
German : 

“And I’ll have a man at the plank here, ser- 
geant : he can watch the ravine. ’ ’ 

Another voice answered : 


CHARLEMAGNE’S RIDE 


307 


‘^Very good, Herr Leutnant, but in that case 
the patrols to right and left need not cross the 
plank each time ; they can turn when they come 
to the ravine guard. 

The voices died away in a murmur. I craned 
my neck aloft. It was so dark, I could see no- 
thing save the fretwork of branches against 
the night sky. I whispered to Francis, who was 
just in front of me : 

‘‘Unless we make a dash for it now that man 
will hear us rustling along!’’ 

Francis held up a finger. I heard a heavy 
footstep along the bank above us. 

“Too late!” my brother whispered back. 
“Do you hear the patrols?” 

Footsteps crashing through the undergrowth 
resounded on the right and left. 

“Cold work!” said a voice. 

“Bitter!” came the answer, just above our 
heads. 

“Seen anything?” 

“Nothing!” 

The rustling began again on the right, and 
died away. 

“They’re closing in on the left!” Another 
voice this time. 

“Heard anything, you?” from the voice above 
us. 

“Not a thing!” 


308 THE MAK with THE CLUBFOOT 

The rustling broke out once more on the left, 
and gradually became lost in the distance. 

Silence. 

I felt a hot breath in my ear. Sapper Maggs 
stood by my side. 

‘‘There be a feller a-watching for ns up 
there ? ^ ’ he whispered. 

I nodded. 

“If us could drar his Mention away, yew could 
slip by, next time the patrols is past, couldn’t 
’ee?” 

Again I nodded. 

“It’d be worse for yew than for me, supposin’ 
yew’d be ca-art, that’s what t’other officer said, 
warn’t it?” 

And once more I nodded. 

The hot whisper came again. 

“I’ll drar ’un off for ’ee, zur, nex’ time the 
patrols pass. When I holler, yew and the 
others, yew run. Thirty-one forty-three Sapper 
Maggs, R.E., from Chewton Mendip . . . that’s 
me . . . maybe yew’ll let us have a bit o’ writing 
to the camp.” 

I stretched out my hand in the darkness to 
stop him. He had gone. 

I leant forward and whispered to Francis : 

“ WTien you hear a shout, make a dash for it !” 

I felt him look at me in surprise — ^it was too 
dark to see his face. 


CHARLEMAGNE’S RIDE 


309 

‘‘Right he whispered back. 

Now to the left we heard voices shouting and 
saw torches gleaming red among the trees. To 
right and rear answering shouts resounded. 

Again the patrols met at the plank above our 
heads, and again their departing footsteps 
rustled in the leaves. 

The murmur of voices grew nearer. We could 
faintly smell the burning resin of the torches. 

Then a wild yell rent the forest. The voice 
above us shouted ‘ ‘ Halt ! ’ ’ but the echo was lost 
in the deafening report of a rifle. 

Francis caught Monica by the wrist and 
dragged her forward. We went plunging and 
crashing through the tangle of the ravine. We 
heard a second shot and a third, commands were 
shouted, the red glare deepened in the sky. . . . 

Monica collapsed quite suddenly at my feet. 
She never uttered a sound, but fell prone, her 
face as white as paper. Without a word we 
picked her up between us and went on, stum- 
bling, gasping, coughing, our clothes rent and 
torn, the blood oozing from the deep scratches 
on our faces and hands. 

At length our strength gave out. We laid 
Monica down in the ravine and drew the under- 
growth over her, then we crawled in under the 
brambles exhausted, beat. 


310 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 


Dawn w’as streaking the sky with lemon when 
a dog jumped sniffing down into our hiding- 
place. Francis and Monica were asleep. 

A man stood at the top of the ravine looking 
down on us. He carried a gun over his shoulder. 

“Have you had an accident?’’ he said kindly. 

He spoke in Dutch, 


CHAPTER XXI 


EED TABS EXPLAINS 

F rom the Argyllshire hills winter has 
stolen down upon us in the night. Be- 
hind him he has left his white mantle, 
and it now lies outspread from the topmost 
mountain peaks to the softly lapping tide at the 
black edges of the loch. Yet as I sit adding the 
last words to this plain account of a curious epi- 
sode in my life, the wintry scene dissolves be- 
fore my eyes, and I see again that dawn in the 
forest. . . . Francis and Monica, sleeping side 
by side, like the babes in the wood, half covered 
with leaves, the eager, panting retriever, and 
myself, poor, ragged scarecrow, staring open- 
mouthed at the Dutchman whose kindly enquiry 
has just revealed to me the wondrous truth . . • 
that we are safe across the frontier. 

What a disproportionate view one takes of 
events in which one is the principal actor ! The 
great issues vanish away, the little things loom 


SI2 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

out large. When I look back on that morning I 
encounter in my memory no recollection of ex- 
travagant demonstrations of joy at our deliv- 
ery, no hysteria, no heroics. But I find a frag- 
rant remembrance of a glorious hot bath and an 
epic breakfast in the house of that kindly Dutch- 
man, followed by a whirlwind burst of hospital- 
ity on our arrival at the house of van Urutius, 
which was not more than ten miles from the 
fringe of the forest. 

Madame van Urutius took charge of Monica, 
who was promptly sent to bed, whilst Francis 
and I went straight on to Eotterdam, where we 
had an interview at the British Consulate, with 
the result that we were able to catch the steamer 
for England the next day. 

As the result of various telegrams which 
Francis dispatched from Eotterdam, a car was 
waiting for us on our arrival at Fenchurch 
Street the next evening. In it we drove off for 
an interview with my brother’s Chief. Francis 
insisted that I should hand over personally the 
portion of the document in our possession. 

‘‘You got hold of it, Des,” he said, “and it’s 
only fair that you should get all the credit. I 
have Clubfoot’s dispatch-box to show as the 
result of my trip. It’s only a pity we could not 
have got the other half out of the cloak-room at 
Eotterdam.” 


RED TABS EXPLAINS 


3^3 


We were shown straight in to the Chief. I 
was rather taken aback by the easy calm of his 
manner in receiving us. 

‘‘How are you, OkewoodT’ he said, nodding 
to Francis. “This your brother? How d^ye 
do?’' 

He gave me his hand and was silent. There 
was a distinct pause. Feeling distinctly embar- 
rassed, I lugged out my portfolio, extracted the 
three slips of paper and laid them on the desk 
before the Chief. 

“I Ve brought you something,” I said lamely. 

He picked up the slips of paper and looked at 
them for a moment. Then he lifted a cardboard 
folder from the desk in front of him, opened it 
and displayed the other half of the Kaiser’s 
letter, the fragment I had believed to be repos- 
ing in a bag at Rotterdam railway station. He 
placed the two fragments side by side. They 
fitted exactly. Then he closed the folder, car- 
ried it across the room to a safe and locked it 
up. Coming back, he held out his two hands to 
us, giving the right to me, the left to Francis. 

“You have done very well,” he said. “Good 
boys! Good boys!” 

“But that other half . . . ” I began. 

“Your friend Ashcroft is by no means such a 
fool as he looks,” the Chief chuckled. “He did 
a wise thing. He brought your two letters to 


314 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 

me. I saw to the rest. So, when your brother^® 
telegram arrived from Rotterdam, I got the 
other half of the letter out of the safe ; I thought 
I’d he ready for you, you see!” 

‘ ‘ But how did you know we had the remaining 
portion of the letter ? ” I asked. 

The Chief chuckled again. 

‘‘My young men don’t wire for cars to meet 
’em at the station when they have failed,” he 
replied. ‘ ‘ N ow, tell me all about it I ” 

So I told him my whole story from the begin- 
ning. 

When I had finished, he said : 

“You appear to have a very fine natural dis- 
position for our game, Okewood. It seems a pity 
to waste it in regimental work. ...” 

I broke in hastily. 

“I’ve got a few weeks’ sick leave left,” I said, 
‘ ‘ and after that I was looking forward to going 
back to the front for a rest. This sort of thing 
is too exciting for me!” 

“Well, well,” answered the Chief, “we’ll see 
about that afterwards. In the meantime, we 
shall not forget what you have done . . . and I 
shall see that it is not forgotten elsewhere. ’ ’ 

On that we left him. It was only outside that 
I remembered that he had told me nothing of 
what I was burning to know about the origin 
and disappearance of the Kaiser’s letter. 


RED TABS EXPLAINS 


3^5 


It was my old friend, Red Tabs, whom I met 
on one of our many visits to mysterious but 
obviously important officials, that finally cleared 
up for me the many obscure points in this adven- 
ture of mine. "When he saw me he burst out 
laughing. 

Ton my soul,’’ he grinned, ‘‘you seem to be 
able to act on a hint, don’t you?” 

Then he told me the story of the Kaiser’s 
letter. 

‘ ‘ There is no need to speak of the contents of 
this amazing letter,” he began, “for you are 
probably more familiar with them than I am. 
The date alone will suffice . . . July 31st, 1914 
... it explains a great deal. The last day of 
July was the moment when the peace of Europe 
was literally trembling in the balance. You 
know the Emperor’s wayward, capricious 
nature, his eagerness for fame and military 
glory, his morbid terror of the unknown. In 
that fateful last week of July he was torn be- 
tween opposing forces. On the one side was 
ranged the whole of the Prussian military party, 
led by the Crown Prince and the Emperor’s own 
immediate entourage; on the other, the record 
of prosperity which years of peace had con- 
ferred on his realms. He had to choose between 


3 i 6 the man with THE CLUBFOOT 


his own megalomania craving for military lau- 
rels, on the one hand, and, on the other, that 
place in history as the Prince of Peace for which, 
in gentler moments, he has so often hankered. 

‘ ‘ The Kaiser is a man of moods. He sat down 
and penned this letter in a fit of despondency 
and indecision, when the vision of Peace seemed 
fairer to him than the spectre of War. God 
knows what violent emotion impelled him to 
write this extraordinary appeal to his English 
friend, an appeal which, if published, would con- 
vict him of the deepest treachery to his ally, but 
he wrote the letter and forthwith dispatched it 
to London. He did not make use of the regular 
courier : he sent the letter by a man of his own 
choosing, who had special instructions to hand 
the letter in person to Prince Lichnowski, the 
German ambassador. Lichnowski was to deliver 
the missive personally to its destined recipient. 

‘‘Almost as soon as the letter was away, the 
Kaiser seems to have realized what he had done, 
to have repented of his action. Attempts to stop 
the messenger before he reached the coast ap- 
pear to have failed. At any rate, we know that 
all through July 31st and August 1st Lichnow- 
ski, in London, was bombarded with dispatches 
ordering him to send the messenger with the let- 
ter back to Berlin as soon as he reached the 
embassy. 


RED TABS EXPLAINS 


3^7 


^‘The courier never got as far as Carlton 
House Terrace. Someone in the War party at 
the Court of Berlin got wind of the fateful let- 
ter and sent word to someone in the German 
embassy in London — the Prussian jingoes were 
well represented there by Kuhlmann and others 
of his ilk — to intercept the letter. 

‘ ‘ The letter was intercepted. How it was done 
and by whom we have never found out, but 
Lichnowski never saw that letter. Nor did the 
courier leave London. With the Imperial letter 
still in possession, apparently, he went to a 
house at Dalston, where he was arrested on the 
day after we declared war on Germany. 

‘^This courier went by the name of Schulte. 
We did not know him at the time to be travelling 
on the Emperor’s business, but we knew him 
very well as one of the most daring and success- 
ful spies that Germany had ever employed in 
this country. One of our people picked him up 
quite by chance on his arrival in London, and 
shadowed him to Dalston, where we promptly 
laid him by the heels when war broke out. 

‘^Schulte was interned. You have heard how 
one of his letters, stopped by the Camp Censor, 
put us on the track of the intercepted letter, and 
you know the steps we took to obtain possession 
of the document. But we were misled . . . not 
by Schulte, but through the treachery of a man 


218 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

in whom he confided, the interpreter at the in- 
ternment camp. 

‘‘To this man Schnlte entrusted the famous 
letter, telling him to send it by an imderground 
route to a certain address at Cleves, and prom- 
ising him in return a commission of twenty-five 
per cent on the price to be paid for the letter. 
The interpreter took the letter, but did not do 
as he was bid. On the contrary, he wrote to the 
go-between, with whom Schulte had been in cor- 
respondence (probably Clubfoot), and an- 
nounced that he knew where the letter was and 
was prepared to sell it, only the purchaser 
would have to come to England and fetch it. 

“Well, to make a long story short, the inter- 
preter made a deal with the Huns, and this 
Dr. Semlin was sent to England from Washing- 
ton, where he had been working for BernstorfiP, 
to fetch the letter at the address in London indi- 
cated by the interpreter. In the meantime, we 
had got after the interpreter, who, like Schulte, 
had been in the espionage business all his life, 
and he was arrested. 

“We know what Semlin found when he 
reached London. The wily interpreter had 
sliced the letter in two, so as to make sure of his 
money, meaning, no doubt, to hand over the 
other portion as soon as the price had been paid. 
But by the time Semlin got to London the inter- 


RED TABS EXPLAINS 


preter was jugged and Semlin had to report that 
he had only got half the letter. The rest you 
know . . . how Grundt was sent for, how he 
came to this country and retrieved the other 
portion. DonT ask me how he set about it: I 
don’t know, and we never found out even where 
the interpreter deposited the second half or how 
Grundt discovered its hiding place. But he 
executed his mission and got clear away with the 
goods. The rest of the tale you know better 
than I do!” 

‘‘But Clubfoot,” I asked, “who is he*?” 

“There are many who have asked that ques- 
tion,” Red Tabs replied gravely, “and some 
have not waited long for their answer. The man 
was known by name and reputation to very few, 
by sight to even fewer, yet I doubt if any man 
of his time wielded greater power in secret than 
he. Officially, he was nothing, he didn’t exist; 
but in the dark places, where his ways were laid, 
he watched and plotted and spied for his master, 
the tool of the Imperial spite as he was the in- 
strument of the Imperial vengeance. 

“A man like the Kaiser,” my friend con- 
tinued, “monarch though he is, has many ene- 
mies naturally, and makes many more. Head 
of the Army, head of the Navy, head of the 
Church, head of the State — ^undisputed, auto- 
cratic head — ^he is confronted at every turn by 


320 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

personal issues woven and intertwined with po- 
litical questions. It was in this sphere, where 
the personal is grafted on the political, that 
Clubfoot reigned supreme . . . here and in an- 
other sphere, where German William is not only 
monarch, hut also a very ordinary man. 

There are phases in every man’s life, Oke- 
wood, which hardly bear the light of day. In 
an autocracy, however, such phases are general- 
ly inextricably entangled with political ques- 
tions. It was in these dark places that Clubfoot 
flourished ... he and his men . . . ‘the G 
gang’ we called them, from the letter ‘G’ (sig- 
nifying Garde or Guard) on their secret-service 
badges. 

“Clubfoot was answerable to no one save to 
the Emperor alone. His work was of so deli- 
cate, so confidential a nature, that he rendered 
an account of his services only to his Imperial 
master. There was none to stay his hand, to 
check him in his courses, save only this neurotic, 
capricious cripple who is always open to 
flattery. ...” 

Eed Tabs thought for a minute and then 
went on. 

“No one may catalogue,” he said, “the crimes 
that Clubfoot committed, the infamies he had 
to his account. Not even the Kaiser himself, I 
dare say, knows the manner in which his orders 


RED TABS EXPLAINS 


3 ^^ 

to this blackguard were executed — orders rap- 
ped out often enough, I swear, in a fit of petu- 
lance, a gust of passion, and forgotten the next 
moment in the excitement of some fresh sensa- 
tion. 

know a little of Clubfoot’s record, of inno- 
cent lives wrecked, of careers ruined, of sudden’ 
disappearances, of violent deaths. When you 
and your brother put it across ‘ der Stelze, ’ Oke- 
wood, you settled a long outstanding account we 
had against him, but you also rendered his fel- 
low-Huns a signal service.” 

I thought of the comments I had heard on 
Clubfoot among the customers at Haase’s, and 
I felt that Red Tabs had hit the right nail on 
the head again. 

‘‘By the way?” said Red Tabs, as I rose to 
go, “would you care to see Clubfoot’s epitaph? 

I kept it for you.” He handed me a German 
newspaper — the Berliner Tagehlatt, I think it 
was — ^with a paragraph marked in red pencil. I 
read : 

“We regret to report the sudden death from 
apoplexy of Dr. Adolf Grundt, an inspector of 
secondary schools. The deceased was closely 
connected for many years with a number of 
charitable institutions enjoying the patronage 
of the Emperor. His Majesty frequently con- 
sulted Dr. Grundt regarding the distribution of 


222 THE MAN WITH THE CLUBFOOT 

the sums allocated annually from the Privy 
purse for benevolent objects/’ 

Pretty fair specimen of Prussian cynicism?” 
laughed Red Tabs. But I held my head . . . 
the game was too deep for me. 


Every week a hamper of good things is dis- 
patched to 3143 Sapper Ebenezer Maggs, Brit- 
ish Prisoner of War, Gefangenen-Lager, Fried- 
richsfeld bei Wesel. I have been in communica- 
tion with his people, and since his flight from 
the camp they have not had a line from him. 
They will let me know at once if they hear, but 
I am restless and anxious about him. 

I dare not write lest I compromise him: I 
dare not make official enquiry as to his safety 
for the same reason. If he survived those shots 
in the dark, he is certainly undergoing punish- 
Inent, and in that case he would be deprived of 
the privilege of writing or receiving letters. . . . 

But the weeks slip by and no message comes 
to me from Chewton Mendip. Almost daily I 
wonder if the gallant lad survived that night to 
return to the misery of the starvation camp, or 
whether, out of the darkness of the forest, his 
brave soul soared free, achieving its final 
release from the sufferings of this world. • . . 
Poor Sapper Maggs ! 


RED TABS EXPLAINS 


3^3 


Francis and Monica are honeymooning on the 
Riviera. Gerry, I am sure, would have refused 
to attend the wedding, only he wasnT asked. 
Francis is getting a billet on the Intelligence 
out in France when his leave is up. 

I have got my step, antedated back to the day 
I went into Germany. Francis has been told 
that something is coming to him and me in the 
New Year’s Honors. 

I don’t worry much. I am going back to the 
front on Christmas Eve. 


THE END 


**The Books You Like to Read 
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i ' . * 




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